Remember Babylon?
by motorcyclesfly
Summary: When Charles Widmore attempts an island coup, the only safe place for Alex Linus is far, far away. With Richard Alpert overseeing her safety, everything should have been fine, but nothing Ben wants ever works out precisely as he had planned. Alex/Richard.
1. i

**title**: Remember Babylon?

**rating**: overall PG-13, with definite R and NC-17 moments in later chapters

**summary**: "She had to grow up sometime". When Charles Widmore attempts an island coup, the only safe place for Alex Linus is far, far away. With Richard Alpert overseeing her safety, everything should have been fine, but nothing Ben wants ever works out precisely as he had planned, and even for Richard, things do not stay entirely the same. Alex/Richard romance that develops over time, along with a few other pairings, island history and Richard back-story.

**pairings**: Richard/Alex mainly, mentions of several others, particularly rare pairings

**author's note**: Inspired by Godless things, among them possessiveness and Nabokov, fickle weather and Oscar Wilde, Radiohead, world history and the Marquis de Sade.

**warnings**: semi-graphic sexuality in later chapters, some violence and character deaths

* * *

I don't regret for a single moment having lived for pleasure. I did it to the full, as one should do everything that one does. There was no pleasure I did not experience. I threw the pearl of my soul into a cup of wine. I went down the primrose path to the sound of flutes. I lived on honeycomb. But to have continued the same life would have been wrong because it would have been limiting. I had to pass on. The other half of the garden had its secrets for me also. - Oscar Wilde _De Profundis_

"Child of the pure, unclouded brow And dreaming eyes of wonder! Though time be fleet and I and thou Are half a life asunder, Thy loving smile will surely hail The love-gift of a fairy tale" - Lewis Carroll

Wake... from your sleep

The drying of your tears

Today.. we escape

We escape.

Pack and get dressed

Before your father hears us

Before.. all hell.. breaks loose.

Breathe... keep breathing

Don't lose.. your nerve.

Breathe... keep breathing

I can't do this.. alone. - Radiohead _"Exit Music"_

i.

"Take this," Richard instructs her, catching her before she can leave the hotel room. He presses a coat into her hands, long and grey. She has never seen it before, but Richard came prepared. "It's cold outside."

It is an island, but all wrong. Alex roams inland, trapped within the confines of the city. No scent of salt sea here, no cerulean waves. The Thames is all flooded muddy banks and dark brown water and rimes of sullied ice, and the only smells that linger remind her of abandonment and things left to rot. Cold, always cold no matter how fast she walks, or even if she runs. The snow comes down, frozen crystal she examines in the palm of her hand, gone numb. The snowflakes really are individual, but they melt before she can truly appreciate the pattern.

Hours later, waiting for the Tube, she realizes she hates being trapped underground. Her hands shake, fingers stained with newsprint from the free paper she tries to distract herself with. An advertisement for a holiday in Tahiti makes her tear up, overwhelmed with longing and nostalgia. She stares at the picture of the pristine ocean and the shady grove of coconut palms until the image blurs with her tears, and then finally the subway train comes, whisking her away. She reads the map wrong, takes a bus in the opposite direction, ends up in Docklands and cries with her hands covering her face as the train jostles over Canning Town and East India, names that sound as foreign to her ears as the tales of her home might to any one of the passengers sharing her ride. The gleaming hotel lobby, frighteningly immaculate the first time she saw it, is a welcome sight.

"I want to go home," Alex says, the first words out of her mouth as she steps into the hotel room. Closing the door behind her, she stands there, waiting, as though Richard might leap up from the chair where he sits and guide her downstairs, summoning a taxi to take them to the airport. Her hands, frozen and unfeeling, clench and unclench. "I don't like it here," she continues, when Richard does not speak. She blushes slightly, feeling childish and petulant under his even gaze, but cannot help the emotion. "I hate it here," she declares, more strongly.

It reminds him nostalgically of Ben, and Richard almost smiles, but thinks better of it. "I'm sorry you feel that way. We can leave London in a few days, if you prefer, as soon as my work is done. Where is it you want to go, Alex?"

She takes off the coat, flings it onto the ground as though in punishment for her circumstances, kicks off the shoes. She does not have her father's patience. "Back," she tells him earnestly. "Let's just go back home."

Richard glances out the window into the night. The sounds of traffic flow by, a summons in the language of speed and metal. Time ticks faster here than back where they belong. "You know we can't do that."

"No," Alex corrects him. "No, I don't. Why can't we? I want to!" Her temper sounds sophomoric even to her own ears, and she gazes at the painting of two lions on the wall, averting her eyes.

"It's not safe. Not yet." _Not for us_, he thinks, but does not add. "Your father asked me --"

"Ben is not my father!" Alex says defiantly. "And it isn't up to him what we do."

"We are not going back, Alex, and that is that."

The slam of the bathroom door is deafening. Alex turns on the light, grateful for the roaring hum of the fan that comes with it, which silences the sound of her crying. She runs a bath for herself, nice and hot to bring the feeling back to her chilled skin, tears dripping down her cheeks as she does so. The smell of the hotel's sample bottle of shampoo - island breeze - brings a fresh round of sobbing after she lowers herself into the scalding water. For a long time, she remains there, locked away. Several times, after silence has reigned for twenty minutes or more, Richard grows concerned, wondering what she is up to, but it is usually around that time that the water grows too cold for Alex's liking and she drains it, running a fresh, piping hot bath. Each time he hears the renewed gush of water, Richard sighs, half from relief and half from disappointment. A few more seconds of worry might have provided an excuse to go talk to her.

...

As usual, Richard does not realize he has fallen asleep until he wakes up. It is early morning, the cusp of dawn, and Alex is standing by the window, enclosed in a golden haze. Bright and shadow duel across her features as she stares out the window at the rising city, studying the patterns of traffic flow and narrowing her eyes at the crowds.

"Good morning," Richard says, standing up. His muscles feel stiff and sore from the hours spent dosing in the chair. "Did you sleep?"

Alex shakes her head. "I can't here. It's too loud," she says, without last night's virulence. Sighing, she turns her back on the window and crosses her arms. "What now?"

"Whatever you want."

"No, not exactly," she speaks, and she mimics Ben's smile, the quick flash, mirthless, that he uses when he is sad or upset. His expression looks at odds with Alex's face. "We can't go home." Shrugging, she looks back to the window as though drawn to it and presses her forehead against the cool window glass, her expression turning dispassionate again, tinged lightly in sorrow. The gleam of the sunlight reflecting off a nearby building gives her a halo, an aureole encircling her dark curls. "When?" she asks. Her voice is buoyed with false confidence, but her eyes are vulnerable as they lock with Richard's.

He goes to her then. It is the first time he has touched her since she was a child, when he would sometimes take her hand to help her up a steep incline or over a gnarled tangle of tree roots. Settling a hand on her shoulder, Richard pulls Alex back from the window so she turns and faces him.

"Soon," he promises. "It's not forever," he tells her, and he should know. To his surprise, Alex bursts into tears. He pulls her close, enfolding her in a hug the way he might have done when she was just a little girl, and had skinned her knee, the way he wanted to when Karl broke her heart. Alex's arms go tightly around his neck, holding on for dear life. She might be drowning.

* * *

Love it or hate it? Let me know what you think! Updated in two weeks, or less...


	2. ii

**author's note for this chapter:** I really debated before using the Nabokov quote included, but in the end I chose to include it because it just fits. I don't know why, as it was added way after the fact, but it does work. There is, of course, always an element of may/december in anything Richard/Alex, but that's not the direction I'm taking the fic, I promise. There will be an element (okay, more than an element) of _physicality_ to their relationship as time progresses, but I don't do coercion (well, with them anyway), and don't want to scare anybody with the 'Lo' reference. Okay, glad that's taken care of...

* * *

"In the gay town of Lepingville I bought her four books of comics, a box of candy, a box of sanitary pads, two cokes, a manicure set, a travel clock with a luminous dial, a ring with a real topaz, a tennis racket, roller skates with high white shoes, field glasses, a portable radio set, chewing gum, a transparent raincoat, sunglasses, some more garments - swooners, shorts, all kinds of summer frocks. At the hotel we had separate rooms, but in the middle of the night she came sobbing into mine, and we made it up very gently. You see, she had absolutely nowhere else to go." Vladimir Nabokov, _Lolita_

ii.

Time passes quickly, though it does not fly, the way he wants it to. Alex lays in bed for a solid week, alternately curling beneath the sheets crying and staring impassively at the ceiling, not responding to anything Richard says for hours on end. He stays patient; she is in mourning, and he has nothing but time. Alex cries for Karl, the way anyone would if their first love had not only broken up with them, but turned traitor as well. It was Karl, after all, who leaked their location over the radio tower, who went to Widmore's soldiers with hands held high, promising all the information they would ever need on Benjamin Linus if they would only promise to take the Linus out. Mourning her childhood, days when everything was sweetness and simplicity and light, that ease and joy she would never regain. Mourning even Ben, with whom she had no contact aside from deafening screaming matches for the six months prior to leaving. Mourning home most of all.

She asks Richard questions constantly, when she does bother to acknowledge him, about the Black Rock, the Temple, the Pearl, of what will be destroyed and what will remain when Widmore's war is over. They take their meals from room service, except for the hours when Richard works - meeting people, making contacts with their new arrivals, trading information, planning - and drags her out to some restaurant where she sits silent, glaring at their people across the table, ever the tempest. Alex eats only mangoes and pineapples, expensive and imported, though she was never particularly attached to tropical fruit before. Richard observes, says nothing. After all, what could he say?

By their second week in London, she finally accepts their exile, though not without some bitterness. They play the part of tourists, Richard joining in for Alex's enjoyment, not confiding that he remembers the place before the reconstructions, at the time of the Great Fire, long before the building of the bridge. Walking with her down the cobblestone streets, he sometimes forgets _when_ exactly he is. It is not so difficult to explore the city as though it is unfamiliar to him. Much has been destroyed and created anew since the last time Richard wandered the streets.

He takes Alex places that she can get lost in, places where she is so distracted she can outrun thoughts of home and sorrow, if only just for a little while. The British Museum, three floors of history. Tottenham Court Road, amid the crush of pedestrians and sellers of purses and endless electronics shops. They buy coffee, sit outside the small café and shiver. He finds tours, as mundane as some are, hoping against hope that Alex cannot hear the roar of her nostalgic thoughts over the monotone of the tour guides. Islington, shopping, on the day he comes back with his bare hands aching from the pressure applied to another man's neck, his mind a whirl of contemplation. The chaotic markets of Brick and Petticoat Lanes. In Bloomsbury, Richard buys her stacks of books. He takes her to Borough Market and buys her foods she has never tried before, things that will never see the inside of a Dharma-issue box, just for the novelty. He lets her chatter, buys her postcards that will never be mailed, allowing them both to pretend it is an ordinary vacation, just a side-trip.

Sometimes things go wrong. They find their way to Marylebone High Street one bright, warm day, and he takes Alex to Daunt Books, knowing her habit of wiling away the painfully slow hours with an endless procession of novels. They browse through the travel collection, speculating upon where to go from here, but then it falls apart. An accidental glance at an Aldous Huxley title, _The Island,_ sends her running from a bookshop as though chased by hellhounds and starts a screaming match in the street.

"I want to go home!" Alex snaps as she hurries away from the bookshop, pushing past two slowly meandering passers-by in her haste to escape the crowded high street and get onto some narrower, less populated alleyway, open enough to run. She tries to flee Richard, the way she has always tried to outrun her father's people, shake herself free from under their thumbs. For a few moments, she actually convinces herself it would be possible to disappear down some London alley, never to be found by Richard again. Remember, she is only sixteen, after all.

Richard charges after her, his lope graceful as ever, even as he hurries. "Alex, wait." He catches her arm, his fingers biting into her shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, and spins her around to face him. "Listen to me, listen." He maintains the hold on her, half-manhandling her until they reach a more sparsely populated area. The last thing he needs is interference, some well meaning good Samaritan taking up Alex's cause. The object of the game is not to be noticed. "You know we can't go back yet. It isn't safe."

She glares at him, and it turns him cold all the way through. Ben's blood may not flow through her veins, but she has his eyes when she fixes him in a dead stare, cool and blue and commanding. "When, then? I'm tired of waiting."

"Soon, I promise you."

"You promised me three weeks ago!"

"These things take time, Alex. I'm not sure if you realize what your father - what Ben is up against," Richard corrects himself, both for her sake, and his. Referring to Ben as her father has begun to make him feel uncomfortable, too. Funny, how the lie never bothered him before, but under Alex's hateful stare, he feels strangely transparent, obvious. She must know the truth about all that. "Charles Widmore has a great deal of time and money invested in securing the island for himself, and he will stop at nothing to do just that. Being on the island right now is extremely dangerous."

Alex wheels around, trying to pull away, but Richard's grip is vise-like. She settles for glaring at him. "That's all the more reason we should go back. How do you know they don't want us to return yet? Maybe they need our help."

"I know, because I have contacts. Alex," Richard continues. "You need to understand, Ben instructed me to take you off the island for a reason. Do you realize what Charles Widmore would do if he knew who you were, and if he had access to you? He knows that if he has you, he controls Ben."

"Oh, so my father banished me because he's afraid I'll end up getting in his way," Alex shouts, furious. "Does it never occur to you people that I can take care of myself?" She seethes. "I could help him! I know the jungle better than he does! I know its secrets better than either him or Widmore."

She is right on the last count, but Richard does not acknowledge it. The last thing he needs is to embolden her to fight him. Being referred to as 'you people', lumped together with Ben's unquestioning lackeys, actually stings. He had always gotten along well with her before. "He wanted you off the island because he's afraid Widmore will kill you if he finds you, Alex," Richard says. He feels his throat tighten as Alex gapes at him, pale and bewildered. "And I can assure you," he goes on, "he would. You might know the island well enough to hide for a time, but he would never stop hunting you, and he would find you."

She finally succeeds in yanking her arm from his grasp and crosses her arms defiantly over her chest. "I don't see why you couldn't outsmart him, if we were back home. I thought you said you knew him," she points out, somewhat diminished.

"That's the point," Richard responds. He thinks of the tireless treks in the ancient jungle, the smoke swirling in the Temple. Regret, a familiar tinge, tarnishes the memories. "I was the one who trained him."

He manages to coerce her into a taxicab back to the hotel. The driver says nothing beyond the perfunctory greeting and the price of the fare at the end of the trip, puzzling over how to react to them. Their arms are laden with packages. They should be happy from a day's outing on a dazzlingly sunny, unusually warm winter's day, but each face out alternative windows, not speaking, nor smiling.

In the hotel lobby, Alex outpaces Richard, hurrying into an elevator packed with other guests, letting the door close in his face without a word. When he goes upstairs ten minutes later, after distracting himself by browsing tourist pamphlets, giving her time to cool off, she is back in her usual perch by the window in the sitting room of their suite, staring down at the traffic.

"I have my own money," Alex tells Richard as he walks over to join her, sitting in one of the chairs by the small table. "Enough for a plane ticket. It doesn't matter what you say. I can leave any time." She slams her way into her bedroom, but a glimpse of her expression before the door closes tells Richard she wanted to hurt him.

Richard leaves the hotel room, going back downstairs, wanting to give her distance. Alex does not know the three employees on alert at the front desk work for Benjamin Linus, or that the porters, bellboys and several of the other guests are his people as well. Ben's reach spreads across oceans and continents, through a thousand sham companies: butcher shops and deluxe hotels, an aviation company, a science laboratory. Twenty pairs of eyes, watching, waiting, are in the hotel on his employ. There is no where Alex can go without being seen and caught, the same net that enclosed her on the island keeping her prisoner here, a thousand miles away. It is simply more discreet.

Richard has a quick word with the head of security, then goes into the small corner bar. At mid-afternoon, it is virtually empty, just two other patrons are inside. One shoots pool, another nurses a beer at the counter, his basset-hound eyes never rising to look around. Richard orders two stiff drinks, consumes them in quick succession, orders a third for the road and leaves a excessively generous tip. Liquor is not the same as it once was - the best alcohol ever made was sold during Prohibition - but Richard likes the appearance of normalcy, which stops people from speculating upon him. Most of these people have never been to the island and know nothing of him or his secrets, the way he prefers it.

Even preoccupied, Richard can work people if he wants to, and off the island, the more allies the better. The bartender grins at him, pocketing the twenty pound note: Richard has just purchased a friend for life. After a while, he goes back upstairs and stands in the hallway outside the door to the suite he shares with Alex, sipping the last drink slowly, wishing the door was better at muffling Alex's sobs, and wishing even harder that he had some way to comfort her. It should not bother him: how many people has he seen in anguish, in terror, in the throes of death? Still, it does. He concentrates on other things.

...

Other times, things go right. Alex wakes up in the middle of the night two days later, startled out of sleep by some kind of dark dream, and finds Richard still awake in his room, writing in his journal. His bed has not been slept in, and he looks tired, but persistent. As soon as she steps inside, he looks towards her warily, prepared to go back out into the hallway if she starts screaming at him again. That he is capable of snapping a man's neck with little effort does not mean he is equipped to handle the hormonal throes of a teenaged girl.

"I had a dream we were back at home," Alex tells him, sitting down on his perfectly made bed and dragging the top blanket around her shoulders. She leans back slightly against the headboard, sighing. "Actually, it seemed like a memory, but it can't be. Nothing like it has ever happened to me before."

She looks at Richard expectantly, waiting for him to make some reply, but he does not, so she continues. "There was a man, and I knew him in the dream, but I don't recognize him now. His name was Horace." She shrugs, not recognizing as Richard shivers and sits up straighter, suddenly intensely alert. "He told me the island wasn't safe. He said Jacob said to stay away, to listen to you." She smiles faintly. "All I want is to go home, and now I have visions of people telling me no, I can't." The smile fades. "I'm sorry, Richard."

He glances down at the journal, the Latin writ in curved, 17th century penmanship, pretending to be distracted. "For what?"

"For taking it out on you." She remembers playing out the same drama with Ben, except this one without redemption or forgiveness. Ben deserved it, Richard does not. Remembrance floods through Alex, reminding her of the fact that Richard always seemed to trust her, gave her advice, treated her like she was not a child. She bites her lip, suddenly aware of how she has been acting. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. I didn't mean to."

He dismisses this with a vague smile, looking down at the table. "You didn't." It is not the first lie he ever told her, but the first one he does not regret. "I understand how much you miss the island. I miss it too," he adds, though he does not. It is home, but in Richard's measure of time, none has passed since they left. He catches Alex's eye, studying her solemnly. "Alex, I promise, I will bring you back there someday."

Richard barely has time to complete the sentence before Alex is in his arms. Gingerly, he enfolds her, pulling her close against him as Alex's arms go around his neck, holding on for dear life. Her tears dampen his shirt collar, but Richard does not mind. He knows he is a surrogate for what she wants and needs. She is crying for what she has lost, the disconcerting homelessness, the unfamiliarity of a world turned topsy-turvy, and holds him only because he is the last part of a life lost, but it is not so bad to have her pulled close, clutching him.

It is strange, the conflict of feelings, the whirlwind of thoughts running through his head. Alex has always been just Ben's daughter to him, someone to watch out for, someone to protect. She was sharp enough to make teaching her interesting - he was the one who taught her that dead-centre aim she perfected on the slingshot, for instance - but as for emotional connection, it is something Richard has always preferred to avoid. He has a job, the island's protection, and that is what matters. There is no point in sentimentality. Getting attached, when human lives are so brief and fleeting, is dangerous. Now, though, feeling Alex's heart beat bird-like through the thin fabric of her shirt, he realizes he has feelings for her, and that they have long existed without his consent or awareness.

It becomes easier to touch her after that. In the night when Alex cries in her sleep, Richard goes to her room, sits on the edge of her bed and strokes her hair or rubs her back until she falls silent and drifts into the more pleasant territories of dreams. She never knows. When he returns one afternoon, his mind exhausted with the complicated matter of fifteen dead bodies, men who will no longer tell tales, he takes Alex's hand, pulls her up from the chair where she had reclined, reading, and holds her, too tight. He tells himself he just wants someone to hold onto so the world will stop spinning. He tells himself it is only to make Alex feel better, less alone. He tells himself there is nothing to the faint brush of her body against his, nothing to the lingering island perfume of her skin, nothing to the subtle stirring of his own body, suddenly intensely aware of her.


	3. iii

Author's Note: Yes, "Cassidy" is used on purpose. And I'm sorry, because this was a hard chapter to write. I hope it doesn't disappoint too bad.

* * *

"Love is a madness; if thwarted it develops fast." - Mark Twain

"You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book(Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom(when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death." - Anaïs Nin

iii.

Richard no longer has to remind Alex to take her coat when she leaves the hotel room. It is Springtime, and though the breeze is still chilly, the snow is long gone. Nor does he need to stalk her path, following just far enough behind that she does not notice. He does it anyway, of course, somewhat because it is an old habit, a bit out of curiosity and mostly for her protection, though he knows the ruse of hiding in plain sight works wonders on a man like Charles Widmore, who is blunt and arrogant and aggressive, and who, despite Richard's teaching, has no idea of the subtler strategies of the war games he plays.

"Where are you going?" Richard asks every time Alex prepares to head out. In the mid-morning, after breakfast, he rarely stirs from the desk where he sorts through the ever-increasing stack of files and documents, reading the reports. Bank account balances, passports bearing his image and Alex's alongside different names and nationalities, and stacks of cash occupy the small safe in the closet. He runs his gaze over the printed page inside the latest brief. Only once Alex leaves does he rise from the chair, drain the last sip of the hotel's excellent French roast and march out the door. It is becoming a daily routine.

"I don't know yet," she replies, each and every time the same mild answer. "Out wandering. I'll be back in a few hours."

He smiles, nods, pretends to be distracted by his work. "Be back by dinner," he says, his usual reply, flat-voiced but friendly enough, feigning busyness. "We need to meet with Jeremy." _Or Alice, or Nicolae, or Cassidy_, Alex frequently thinks, sarcastic and perturbed. _It is always the same. _

Homesickness has mostly faded, though she would still rather be back at her usual haunts, perched in the shade beneath heavy palm fronds, strolling the familiar paths or exploding the coastal caves that flood perilously at high tide. She would rather watch the stars and moon rise without thousand neon lights combating them, listening to the absolute still silence of the jungle without the crush of noise even quiet, hurried people make. Part of it is the unfamiliarity, but the main problem is Richard. She cannot deny the crush, slow burning, fuelled by the way Richard's gaze pours over her body, his expression half-captivated when she catches him watching out of the corner of her eye, but that just adds to the frustration. Sometimes, he fixes her with long, curious glances, hot enough to make her blush even as she pretends not to notice, but he rarely speaks to her. Now that she is compliant, he rarely offers to take her out sightseeing, and starts conversations less frequently. She has never had to work to make people pay attention to her before, but Richard, for all interest that crosses his face when he thinks she is preoccupied, will barely even lift his eyes from the files when she speaks to him. She has no way of knowing the reasons, of course, only the truth of it, that he does not seem to notice or care. It is maddening, for a lonesome, hormonal girl.

Alex takes a few ten pound notes from the envelope on the bedside table, puts them in her pocket, pulls on her sweatshirt and is gone with the quiet snick of the closing door. Richard waits three minutes, then four. He puts his hand on the phone on the table, waiting for a call from the front desk, alerting him that Alex has gone out. If Richard were to tell them to rein her in, captured she would be; his people are just that good. But every morning, he lets her go, content to follow behind. He picks up the phone before the first ring is finished. "It's fine," he speaks into the mouthpiece, hangs up, and puts on his boots.

Alex is farther away than usual by the time Richard steps outside. She is hurrying down the street with the air of someone who knows exactly where they are going. He follows her at a quick pace, but Alex practically jogs. She pushes past a knot of slow pedestrians, and when the crowd clears, he cannot see her anymore. There are two streets, two opposite directions, as well as straight ahead, into the thoroughfare of food vendors and shady parks and tiny specialty shops.

"Alex..." Richard sighs, worrisome. He strides forward until he comes to the divide, his pace quickening with every second that he does not see her. For a moment, the fear rises despite his outward calm. She is gone.

_One of Widmore's people_, he considers. He imagines Alex pulled into a car, and the scene plays out before his mind's eye, stunningly rich in imaginative detail. He knows precisely how it is done, a quick kidnapping on a crowded street. He has done it for Ben a dozen times, maybe more, when Johnson quit, when they wanted to interrogate Widmore's off-island bit on the side, after Annie left. Alex screaming, clawing the door handles, fighting her captors helplessly. The chloroform-soaked rag pressed against her face. Alex's limp, unconscious body in the back of a car, driven miles away, out of reach. Richard sees it all. He can picture her waking up in horror, screaming, crying, begging to be let go. He sees her, interrogated under the ruthless methods Widmore employed when he led the island prior to his banishment. Images flash through his mind of Alex, a means to an end, a lure to capture Ben, everything falling apart. He can see her being shot, killed, destroyed in front of Ben. Her death would be a threat to the island, though that is not the sole reason Richard's heart pounds as he turns around, looking for any sign. She has begun to grow on him, and he feels the affection rising accompanied by concern. "Alex?"

"Yes?" she inquires slightly sarcastically, stepping out from the shadowy perch of a coffee shop. Unbelievably, she smiles at him, grinning as though amused. "So you _do_ follow me! I thought so -" she starts, but the rest of her words are silenced as Richard grabs her shoulders, yanking her forward. He looks her over as she gapes at him, searching for any injury, any sign of something amiss, and then Richard takes her arm, pulling her back the three blocks to the hotel as fast as he can march her.

"What's the matter with you?" Alex asks as Richard drags her from the elevator, holding onto her elbow with one hand while unlocking the door with the other. They step inside and Richard closes and locks the door, still not releasing her. Her voice turns hot, temper rising. "Richard? What's your problem? I'm fine, you know. I just wanted to see if I was right. A couple days ago, I thought I saw you out of the corner of my eye. Yesterday, I know I saw you, following me to the museum. I didn't mean to scare -"

His hand over her mouth silences the rest of what Alex intended to say as his dark eyes bore into hers. For a moment, Alex is too shocked to comprehend what is happening, and without thinking she tries to side-step him, but this is Richard, and resistance is useless. His hands close over her upper arms and he pushes her back against the wall, pinning her there, his legs up against hers to block her from moving. He is incredibly strong, more than she realized, and it occurs to Alex that he has been gentle with her always, handling her like something that could break. Never before has she seen a display of the strength that leaves him virtually fearless, a graceful miracle of self-preservation. She cannot move at all.

"Alex," Richard speaks, in that quietly furious voice that makes even Ben and Widmore shudder. "Do not ever do that again."

Alex nods, eyes wide as if dealing with someone of questionable sanity as Richard lets go of her. "I know I scared you, but I'm fine, absolutely fine. We're safe here, remember?" That is not entirely true, but Richard does not bother to correct her. They are _safer_, in any case. It occurs to her, out of the blue, that Richard is a dangerous person, but that thought is overwhelmed by something stronger, the chrysalis of desire she feels. Watching him warily, feeling the press of his legs against hers, Alex waits. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and sees a faint smear of blood where she bit her lip, hard, and looks questioningly at him.

"I'm sorry," Richard says as he steps back, though that is not entirely true. He is not sorry for frightening her, if that is what it takes to make her understand their predicament.

A faint bruise is beginning to form beneath her bottom lip like a shadow unfurling, mildly purple. Alex's eyes, violet-blue in this light, look at him in absolute surprise. Richard's heart pounds, waiting for something of Alex's famed temper, her icy judgement. It does not come. Instead, she gives him a long, searching look, her eyes full of questions she does not ask. Then, she goes over to her bed, lays down on the covers, and closes her eyes.

...

Richard goes out alone and walks the darkening city in solitude, leaving strict orders that Alex is not to exit the suite. He barely notices the street vendors and scattered knots of pedestrians, not concentrating on the scents of coffee or vinegar that waft from the restaurants. Instead, he considers the press of Alex's body against his own. He had slapped his hand over her mouth, hard, because, had he not, he would have been tempted to kiss her. That untamed defiance, that has ever been a thorn in Ben's side, is deliciously tantalizing to Richard, even though it makes protecting Alex an even more difficult task than he expected. She is a spitfire and he likes it. He is quite aware of how wrong it is to be drawn to her, how much it could interfere with his important work, but no one is entirely immune from temptation.

Streets pass. He finds himself in parts of the city that do not feature in the guidebooks, where the litter underground makes a path for his feet over the rough dirt and rock roads. Magazine pages, warped and hideous, line the street along with chips packets and discarded cans. The people who skulk here are not shoppers but frightening shadows, though Richard does not feel fear, even as he walks dimly lit remains of Whitechapel in the East End, where the ghosts of 1888 linger. No one stops him, or interferes as he passes. Perhaps they sense something that makes them shy away from his soft footfalls, or notice a glint amiss in his dark eyes. That is how it should be.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Alex says, penitent, as Richard steps into the suite. She is stands by the window, her back to him, studying the full moon. Stars scatter, but they are wrong. The constellations are not the same here as the ones back home on the island, the stars she named hand in hand with Karl. "I'm sorry."

Richard stands by the door. His voice is calm and practical. "You didn't scare me, Alex. I was concerned you might get lost."

Alex shrugs. "Oh. You're supposed to watch out for me, I get it. I shouldn't have tried to ditch you." After a beat, she turns and faces him. "That's what I was trying to do."

"You wanted privacy, some time alone," Richard interprets. "I understand that, Alex." How could he not, after the temper tantrums she had on the island, demanding to be left to her own devices?

"No, I wanted to get away from you," Alex corrects him. She crosses the room, goes to him. Her eyes study him, shark-like, emotionless, haughty, with the distant look she uses on Ben. "Just you. Not them." She waves her hand distantly, encompassing Ben's collective, his people, who track her. "They're easy. That woman, the one who you sometimes send to follow me? I've gotten away from her twice. Guess she was too cowardly to tell you," Alex adds when Richard looks up, startled.

His long-lashed eyes look away from her, his expression just this shade of sorrowful. "I'll contact Mikhail, then. He is in Berlin, with Juliet. You can join them, if you would prefer. We can probably arrange a flight in a few days, if that is what you want."

She makes a contemptuous sound, lips twisting into a scowl. "You wouldn't even care, would you? You can't wait to get rid of me, can you? You can't wait until I'm somebody else's responsibility and you're done with me. You're just like the rest of them."

"Alex," Richard says patiently, still not looking at her. "If you will not stay here with me, then I cannot protect you. For your own safety, I need to place you with someone you will cooperate with. If not Juliet, then who? You can go to Jill and Jeremy, if you would rather."

Alex takes a step closer, until their bodies are almost touching. She touches Richard's face, observing the fact that he does not push her aside or draw away, and tilts it so he will look at her. "Is that really the only reason you told Ben you would take me? To protect me?"

Richard wets his lips, looking past Alex. His expression does not change, whether he speaks in truths or lies. It is flat, cool, calm. He wants to be that untouchable. There are chinks in the armour, though. "I felt I was the best equipped to watch out for you, Alex. That is all. Your safety is top priority, and Ben did not feel he could trust the others to do the job."

"Oh," Alex responds. She shrugs as though it doesn't matter, though of course it does. "I thought there might have been another reason."

"And what would that be?"

"The way you look at me." She slides one hand over Richard's chest, able to feel the hammering of his heart against the palm of her hand, and then rakes her fingers through his hair. She observes the fact that he does not lurch away from her touch. "I'm not blind, you know," she murmurs against his lips, smiling slightly when she feels Richard's hand against her back, steadying her. She kisses him lightly, then. There are a number of reasons. She is lonely. She is sixteen and her body is raging. But it is also more than that. Her lips move against his unyielding mouth until, finally, he returns the kiss, his mouth far more forceful, the kiss demanding. She is just beginning to enjoy herself when Richard takes her hands and pulls her away from him, stepping back away from her.

His lips gleam, damp from their kisses. "Stop."

She stares back at him, hurt and disappointed and most of all rejected, her chin set stubbornly, her expression pained. Her eyes are very young as they meet Richard's. "Why? Don't you want to?"

Richard shakes his head, reaching for her hand. "Don't do this, Alex."

"Answer the question," she says, her voice twenty degrees colder, jerking away from his touch and wrapping her arms around herself protectively.

"No, Alex, I don't." Another lie, this time one he regrets immediately.

She looks at him, stunned and miserable, then turns on her heel, fleeing back to her own bedroom and slamming the door, locking it against him, something she never does. Beyond the door, there is no sound of muffled crying, no screaming, nothing being thrown. Richard is not grateful. The silence is the worst punishment of all.


	4. iv

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned." - William Congreve

iv.

"Don't touch me. Don't you touch me!"

Alex's voice echoes off the cobblestone walk and stone walls as she wrenches her body away from Richard's casual, guiding hand on her shoulder. Shades of Alexandra past (she was a daemon once, how could he have forgotten?) give her eyes a malicious glare as she looks at him, full of contempt, then turns her back and flounces away, hurrying towards their destination, though she had dragged her feet just moments before, silently berating him.

It does not help, Richard considers, that they are in the populous, tourist area near the tower, strolling the banks of the Thames with a thousand pant-suited pedestrians in "Mind the Gap" sweatshirts and t-shirts bearing the map of the Underground with its colourful, intertwined lines, their necks hung heavy with cameras, hands clutching identical plastic bags. Hundreds of heads turn, or so it seems, as Alex shrieks at him from a half-block away.

"Leave me alone, god damn it!" she shouts, the hurricane, Ben's exiled princess. "Would you stop following me already?"

Head lifted high, dressed in an impeccable black suit with shined shoes, clutching a metal briefcase (contents: questionable), Richard wades through the sea of onlookers sedately, yet somehow manages to catch up. His hand closes over Alex's wrist tightly, grating the bones together, to which she elicits another sharp cry, trying to pull away from him. Two portly tourists in shorts that expose dull white and terrible legs step forward a few steps, muttering about the man that is giving that poor girl a hard time. Somewhere, Richard knows, someone is speculating about a kidnapping, a stalker, a violent, jealous lover, and all it will take to make the situation infinitely more complicated is for Alex to figure that out and use it against him. One word, that is all it will take, be it "rape!" or "help!" or "police!" - anything along those lines. Then, he contemplates grimly, the whole of London will descend on him in one mad rush, a chaos of thrown rocks and plastic and raised, irate voices. Disconcerting memories of stonings past come to mind as he drags Alex forward. His lips brush her ear as he leans in, whispering a sharp warning. The scent of her body, reminiscent of saltwater breezes, sugar and hibiscus, does nothing to clear his head.

"Alex..."

"What?" she hisses, pulling away from him as much as she can. The twirl as she tries to flee him is like a dance step, and Richard pulls her back in, putting an arm around her to hold her still. Any minute now they could begin to tango. She struggles. "Go away from me. Let go of me!"

He thinks of Alex dragged back to the bunkers after running off into the jungle alone for the millionth time, clawing like a rabid animal at her captors, screaming curses that even sailors were not apt to know. He cannot deny the rush of affection he feels for her. Always, ever, he has appreciated that dazzling display of life and resistance. He always will, even when it pains him, even when she (is it actually possible?) is gone. While the others obey him and Ben unquestioningly, limiting their rebellion to hushed whispers inside darkened tents or abysmal mutterings in the jungle, Alex puts hers on display. She refuses to break. Nonetheless, it was much easier supervising her when she actually let him trail mutely after her on her walks, when she merely sulked during meetings with their people. Richard knows the reason for her regression, and it gnaws at him. He was the one who pushed her away, with the taste of her still clinging to his lips, lust swirling through his blood, so what else can he possibly expect?

"Having trouble, miss?" somebody asks in a concerned voice with the drawling accent of the American south. He shifts his shopping bags, the Texas twang still vibrating on his palate, and points a meaty hand Richard's way.

Richard cocks his head slightly, an almost puzzled expression flitting across his features as he sizes the other man up, as though surprised to find himself amongst people. The other man is taller maybe, forty pounds heavier at least, but those will not be advantages. "Everything is absolutely fine," he speaks, his own voice crisp and the accent undefined (remnants of Olde English lilt cross his tongue, but none present save him and perhaps a ham Shakespearian actor amongst the crowd know it). Richard studies the man a tiger might, if one foolishly lumbered over the bars of its cage. "Isn't it fine, Alex?"

She does not answer. Her eyes trail over her feeble rescuer, noting the red marks of sunburn across his plump cheeks. Then she dismisses him, with a final scornful glance at his cumbersome trainers. Again, she tries to draw her hand away from Richard's steel grip, but it is a hopeless pursuit. Rolling her eyes, she turns away from him, as though if she ignores him long enough, he will disappear.

"Miss?" the tourist tries again, setting his shopping bag (contents: Tower of London snow-globe, t-shirt for his niece, dog-eared guidebook, a nutcracker in the shape of a Buckingham Palace guard) and hedging, one hand in a useless fist. "Is this fellow giving you a hard time?" As Alex stares blithely heavenward, he tries Richard again. "You'd better let that young lady alone."

"Look, friend," Richard speaks in that quiet, deadly voice, deceptively courteous. He only calls people friend when he means them grievous bodily injury, and Alex knows it. The other man does not. He is wary, but stubborn. Richard is no longer a nameless face in the crowd, deceptively mild and plain, but the man who shoved the rifle out of Charles Widmore's hands, the one who broke the necks of the two generals that came with the troops to his island with their foolish bombs and useless aerial maps. Danger glimmers in fathomless black eyes. His muscles tense, inadvertently holding Alex's wrist tighter, so that she stifles a yelp. "There's no problem here, and there won't be, unless you keep this up. The _young lady _and I are fine."

The tourist pales but does not recant, nor retreat. He shifts from foot to foot, like a child in need of the loo. His eyes flick back and forth from Richard's warning expression to Alex's vacant one, her eyes focussed on the clouds, her hand limp in Richard's. "Miss?"

Abruptly, she flashes him a bright smile, so wide and clear and perfect that nobody but Richard, clenching her arm even tighter, can tell it is wholly insincere. "Oh, yes," she gushes cheerfully, blinking as though she has just noticed him. Under Richard's biting fingers, her wrist purples, bruising. She wonders if the bones will break, and contemplates whether or not it would be a simple matter to escape from a hospital. If it were not for her certainty that Richard would do something unpleasant to her portly white knight, she would be content to make a scene, throw a fit and watch Richard have to cope with the authorities, but she does not want the foolhardy intruder murdered, so she widens her smile a fraction more, all white teeth and innocent, teenage jubilance. "I'm fine."

He nods nervously, avoiding Richard. "You're sure? Looked like you two were having an argument."

_Nosy_, Alex thinks, _does not know what's good for him_. She beams rapturously, feeling Richard shift at her side. She is quite aware that he has a gun in that briefcase. "Yes, we were, but it's okay now. _My uncle _and I," she adds, slitting her eyes at Richard, "were having a disagreement. But it's fine now. Really."

The tourist stares for a moment, debating whether or not to interfere, but then Richard drags Alex forward and reluctantly she goes, imprisoned by his hold on her wrist. As they move on, the man goes back to his tour group, which seems made entirely of vociferous elderly women intent on spreading gossip. Their words echo like the shrill caws of crows in Richard's wake, and they cluck their tongues at Alex, who trips and reels forward, so quickly does Richard force her to move.

"Uncle, hmm?" Richard asks when a fair distance has been attained, abruptly changing from murderous leader to the man who smiled at her as she went higher, higher on the shabby old swing-set.

She glances at him, contemptuous and cruel. "You're old enough. Beyond old enough," she adds significantly, thinking of that fact that, but for the clothes he wears and the length of his hair, Richard has not changed since she was a tiny child. "What else was I supposed to say? Help? You would have broken every bone in his body." Staring at her wrist, carefully caught in Richard's hand, Alex sighs. "You've practically broken my wrist already."

He ignores the complaint, his fingers still gripping her tightly. "Thank you. For not causing a scene. It would have been problematic, if it had gone any further."

"No problem," Alex retorts in a frigid, fierce voice completely unlike the charming tone she used on the tourist. "Now let go of me." They walk around a corner and Alex claws at his hand. "Damn it, you're hurting me!"

Richard looks at her meaningfully, scant sympathy reflected in his eyes, and takes hold of her other wrist, forcing her to come over to his right side. "Better? Now come on, we're going to be late."

"Get away from me, Richard," Alex sneers at him, her expression arctic.

"You didn't tell me you were leaving the hotel," he speaks softly as he leans in, breath hot against her neck, putting his free arm around her shoulders. It is supposed to be an affectionate gesture, but his purpose is to hold her still against him, and that is clear to Alex as well. "Why?"

Alex tries to shrug his arm off, though of course, she cannot. Unfazed, she crosses her arms as best she can with his fingers in their crushing hold on her wrist. "Because I didn't want you bothering me. So how come you are?" she asks sarcastically. "More spies? Don't any of them have anything better to do than tell on me when I go for a walk?" She tries to pull her arm away, unsuccessfully. "God, you people never know when to quit, do you? I should have expected that. Everybody sure jumped to do whatever Ben said back on the island, and you're just the same. What are we even here for? I thought you had something more important to do that follow me. You used to actually matter to my father. What happened? How come he doesn't have any better use for you than to be a babysitter?"

The insult, meant to injure his pride, does nothing of the sort. Richard is not the kind of man that needs to explain himself, or who has something to prove. "We need to keep moving," Richard whispers, bracing Alex against him with his arm over her shoulders. "Please," he tries, a rarely used word, and Alex turns to him, surprised. Richard Alpert does not need to ask people please. Most people do what he says on command.

Alex looks incredulously at him, at loss for words for a moment. Her dark curls are whipped by the wind coming off the river, and she glares at him furiously. Richard glances away as though she were Medusa and might turn him to stone with that look. She would if she could, of that he is certain. Weeks ago, they had been friends. Several days earlier, they had almost ended up something more. Now, it is back to runaway Alex and her father's hired jailer. "Let go of me," she speaks through clenched teeth.

"Not here," Richard answers. "And not yet. If you calm down, I'll consider it. I need to meet with Jill, I don't have time to bring you back to the suite, and since I can't trust you to return to the hotel on your own, you're coming with me."

"No," Alex says, "I'm not." Her fingernails dig deep purple welts into Richard's hand as she tries to free her wrist, but he barely feels it. She jerks away, but he still will not let her go. Finally, she settles for drawing back her free hand and slapping him, hard, across the face, like a lady in an old motion picture, scandalized by some rogue. Alex pales a second later, as Richard tilts his head slightly, looking at her intently, his normally dark eyes strangely honey-coloured, before dragging her on.

The hint of pain crackling through him makes Richard walk faster, like someone roused from sleep. Pulling Alex along, he rounds a corner, to find a hint of privacy among the shadows that blot out the overhead sun and the dull mumbling of tourists with their snapping cameras. Alex says something at him, more likely an insult than an apology, but Richard barely hears her as he pulls her close against him, one hand pushing her unruly hair back from her pretty face.

"I'm sorry," he says, as though he were the one who had struck her. He takes hold of her hand, running his fingers over the developing bruise across her wrist. "If I hurt you."

For just a second before her eyes go fiery, Richard sees a glimmer of sadness reflected back at him in Alex's irises. "You should be," she spits, jerking her head away, refusing to look at him. She studies the pattern of brickwork intently, as though fascinated, and even when Richard cups her chin, forcing her to look at him, she averts her eyes, studying the wall behind him. "Just leave me alone," she says, without virulence, sounding almost tired. "Let go of me!" When he touches her hair, Alex bites her lip, eyes downcast, blinking back tears. "I hope you know I hate you. I really do."

Richard kisses her then. He smoothes back stray hair from her brow as he bends in, one arm around her waist drawing Alex closer, until he can feel her body against his. Remembering the way Alex's lips parted, coaxing him into a response, Richard caresses Alex's face, urging her to respond to him. She does, finally, as his tongue forces its way past the barrier of her lips. He sucks on her full bottom lip, savouring the taste of her, all thoughts of business temporarily blotted from his mind. Slowly, so slowly, Alex's hands come up to his chest, sliding up to his shoulders, and finally she wraps her arms around his neck, rising up on tiptoe to engage him. Richard kisses her back fiercely, just this side of desperate, blotting out all thoughts of obligation and Benjamin and wicked tasks that lie ahead. He has cared for Alex a long time, and betrays all his secrets as he gives into rising lust and kisses her, hard and needy. He guides her back against a wall, bracing her there, his five o' clock shadow grazing her soft skin, one hand stroking her face, kissing her hungrily.

Finally, he draws back, and Richard sees the tears clinging to Alex's eyelashes and cheeks, the faint blush that lights up her face. He presses his lips to each tear, his hands tangled in her long hair, feeling the rhythm of her petulant heart as he pulls her close again. He kisses her gently at first, then more forceful, murmuring French endearments against her lips as he lets her breathe, and presses his body against hers, certain she can feel his arousal. It is perfect, but after a few moments, Alex pulls away from him, pushing him away, looking over his shoulder.

"Hi, Jill," she says, expressionless, as her gaze settles on the woman, still dressed in white from work, who clutches files and, wrapped in burlap, a gun.

Richard straightens up and glances over his shoulder at the butcher, who waits patiently, her eyes just a bit too bright to feign ignorance of the situation. "Give me a minute," he directs, not bothering to explain himself (why would he?) and with a nod, Jill goes to the paint-peeling railing of the Thames, peering down into the dark water as though captivated.

"Alex," Richard speaks, stroking her hair. He pulls her close into something like a hug, though it is an unfamiliar pose for him, but Alex is rigid in his arms, like someone trapped. Richard kisses her forehead, then her cheek, and she jerks away from him. "I am sorry," he tells her. "I wanted to, before." Vaguely he gestures, to indicate the hotel. "I couldn't."

As though she does not hear him, Alex stares past him. She does not ask why he refused her before. She does not ask him anything.

Richard sighs, touching her face. "Alex."

"I don't care what you want," she says quietly, almost inaudibly. "I don't care about you at all," she informs him, a bit more of an edge to her voice, though she still does not look at him. It is a lie, but she is sixteen and needs to protect herself, and Richard is much more complicated than Karl or any of the mere boys she has crushed on previously. Rejection, especially from someone so familiar, someone who had almost always treated her with kindness and affection, cut deep enough to leave her wounded. That he wants her now, seemingly on a whim, after dragging her around and half breaking her arm and nearly killing a random pedestrian, makes no sense, tips her whole world out of orbit. There are no explanations he could offer, nothing that would take back the point-blank stare, his simplistic refusal, from back at the hotel, when she was lonesome and hot and needy and he was ice cold denial. "No," she adds, as Richard tries to caress her hair. "Don't touch me."

Richard looks at her, wary of the pained expression that crosses Alex's features as he tries again. Alex shakes her head, stubborn and hurt, shoves him away with a rough gesture that would cause anyone else to stumble. Over by the river, Jill taps her fingers impatiently, stealing glances. "Okay, Alex," he gives in, holding up his hands. "I need to speak to Jill for a moment. Wait here for me." When Alex gives no reply, he catches her hand, squeezing her fingers slightly, his eyes full of speculation and understanding. "Yes?" Still receiving no response, Richard regretfully walks towards Jill, trying to concentrate on the hit list she will no doubt have brought him. He leans back against the rail, tired as he has not been frequently in his long years, and glances over at the shadowy area near the deserted tower where he left Alex. She is not there. A glance reveals her, hair flying a black flag, running through the crowd, not heading towards the hotel, simply hurtling herself in any direction that will take her far away from him.


	5. v

"Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,

Dreaming in the joys of night;

Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep

Little sorrows sit and weep." - William Blake

v.

A week later, a new hotel. They sit each on separate beds like the populace of symbiotic islands, meeting over the islet that is the bedside table. The archipelago of the hotel room is beds and table and desk and chairs. A box containing a few slices of leftover pizza lies on the desk. One shared lamp shines on the bedside table. Two glasses, Alex's full of ice and coke from the vending machine, Richard's half-filled with good red wine, rest atop that as well. The single radio alarm clock has been bequeathed to Alex, who sometimes plays the radio softly, still intrigued with the entirely novel concept of radio stations. Neither of them requires a timer to wake up, of course. They rise with the dawn.

They have not touched, nor spoken much, for all of seven days. Alex's face sometimes flares with colour when she catches Richard watching her. She never comments, just looks away. Richard sits by the window for long hours when he is not working, studying her prismatic reflection in the glass, torn between apologizing for kissing her and doing it again. The awkwardness between them has dissipated the conversation into small talk, and that is on good days.

It is late in the evening, and they are watching a film on the television as an excuse not to have to talk to each other. At least, that is Alex's motivation, and Richard does not stop her. It is broadcast in Spanish, a language Alex is not very familiar with.

"These subtitles," she complains with an emphatic sigh, needing to break the silence between them. "I can't see what's happening because I have to stop and read the dialog. I wish I knew Spanish," she remarks, sprawling forward onto her stomach, resting her chin in her hands. "I don't understand any of it."

"Yes, you do," Richard corrects her, lavishing a great deal more attention on the crumpled newspaper before him than on Alex. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, though, his expression bland, removed. Another argument is the last thing he wants to cope with, but he can not help it. The sight of Alex, gazing in rapt fascination at something not associated with islands and home, is more interesting and entertaining than the movie itself. It does not hurt that with all her shifting, her t-shirt has pulled up some, revealing an inch of bare skin.

Alex sighs. "Not enough, obviously. Ben was right, I should have studied more."

Richard takes a drink of his wine, savouring it for a long moment before speaking. He hides his faint smile, the pleasure that she is actually talking to him, rustling the newspaper ostentatiously. "You know Latin, and French," he points out. "That's enough. You can't know all of the languages. There are too many, and there isn't enough time."

"That's not enough. Someone must know them all. I wish I did. There are books, on the shelves at home, Ben's books, that I might never be able to read. I wish we all spoke the same language. Think how much easier that would be! We should be able to understand everything no matter who says it," Alex responds, giving up on the film and changing the channel. She wonders what it would be like to speak Richard's language, to figure him out. Women are supposed to be the mysterious ones, but Richard is beyond complicated, as far as she is concerned.

Richard smiles at her, lightly. His thoughts dwell on her in fragments of Aramaic and Avestan, thinking of the words for beauty and fire. "Be careful what you wish for. Remember Babylon?"

"The tower? That's just a story," she informs him haughtily, abandoning television altogether and tossing the remote over to Richard, who catches it like some exotic form of relay racing. "Besides, you're one to talk. I've heard you speak in languages I couldn't even spell the names of. How many do you know, then?"

Richard thinks of the tower that came crashing down, almost able to hear the resounding roar of protest from failing brick and snapping wood. Ruins of a garden, the rumble of an earthquake, deep dark sky. The explosion of destruction is not loud enough to mute the screams of the people, the scattered and the damned. Is it an image from a film, a painting or a memory? He cannot say. He shakes his head, blotting out the vision. "Enough," Richard decides to tell her. He guards the truth about himself, though he is sure she must have puzzled it out by now, and does not mention eternity, or Sanskrit. "Enough to serve their purpose." He clicks off the television, exhausted by the inane chatter and flashing images. It is like a puzzle, one he does not care enough to work out. It interferes with the nature he is tied to. "And enough of that, too," he comments, tossing the remote aside. "Too loud."

"You were gone yesterday," Alex says softly after a few moments of silence. "All day." _And I missed you, _she considers, but does not speak. She does not want to miss him. It would be easier if she could think of him in the terms she used to use, back when he was just one of her father's people, an unimportant advisor strolling the dark, rainstorm jungle without minding the thorns or tangled vines, someone kind and fairly meaningless. She turns over onto her back, examining the ceiling as though for clue. Light from the lamp casts shadows against the far wall as stretches her arms overhead. "Is there any news from home?"

"Not really," Richard fibs, leaning back heavily against his pillows. He thinks of Jill's voice, frantic and snarling, explaining that their main plant in Widmore's office had been compromised. _So he knows we're looking for information, and he knows we're here. _Ten dead, back home on the island. Karl's body washed up on shore, though they all know, the inner circle anyway, no Widmore fellow was responsible for that. The airplane crash survivors have become their people in the interim, seeing as Widmore's men are just as keen to blow them away as any other enemy. "Ben is fine," he adds, in case she was worried for him.

Alex nods. "Of course he is. Anything else?"

"As far as I know, the barracks are still protected," Richard reports. He closes his eyes, not tired exactly, but wearied by the thought of what is happening to that place. Like Alex, he misses the island intensely. Unlike Alex, he does not want to go back, not yet. It is not fear of the battle, or anything so mundane, but he knows that the island is threatened and he cannot help, and were he trapped there, useless, it would drive him mad. More needs to be done than the simple slaughter of their enemies. A different person is required, and he does not have the heart, as much as he should, to discard Ben in favour of the new leader. There is nothing he can do.

"Anything about Karl?" she asks, deliberately light-hearted, attempting to be casual. Her voice catches as she speaks his name. "I mean, have they caught him, or anything?" she clarifies as Richard opens his eyes and looks at her.

Richard shakes his head, closes his eyes again. "No, not yet." The lie comes easy to his lips, and he does not feel the slightest tinge of guilt for relieving her of the suffering of knowledge. Richard of all people understands what a burden it can be to know too much. Alex speaks, "good", from somewhere above him, and suddenly Richard realizes she has joined him there on the bed.

Alex's hand rests lightly on his forearm, her face a mask of confusion and unhappiness. It has been difficult, trying to forget day after day. She tells herself she no longer remembers the profusion of blossoms outside her window, tracing the pattern of pale pink English roses on the wallpaper instead. She goes to a bar one day, intent on setting her sights on new experiences, but the drink she orders with her forged passport is all wrong, a piña colada, the taste of the island, the scent of her bedroom, and salt tears pour down her face at the first sip. Libraries, too large, accommodate her in stuffy silence. She pores over maps, trying out the names of exotic locations in inaudible whispers, reading the histories of the places they could be from. Hard work, forgetting, denying. The island calls her as strongly as it ever did, in the undeniable summons of the jungle she has heard from infancy, and so she answers as best she can from so far away, kneeling at Richard's side, bending down to graze his lips in a faint kiss.

He catches her shoulder as she draws back, his dark eyes studying her porcelain face. She is paler here, away from the equatorial heat. The English sun glows whiter than the tropical sun that shines down on the burnished sands back home, too feeble and distant. He could ask her what exactly she thinks she is doing. He could ask her why, but he is certain he already knows the answer to that. He is the last stable fixture from the world she remembers, the last tangible piece of home. In her new clothes, her feet finding their way down the unfamiliar concept of streets, amid a whirl of buses and honking horns, streetlights and shops, Richard is all that remains of the island.

Instead of speaking, Richard meets Alex's gaze. She is not crying - a relief. He wants her just as badly when she does cry, but for all his many years, he still has no idea how to handle a sobbing teenager. Richard feels no shame whatsoever at the thought of what Ben would say if he knew his adopted daughter was at that moment curling up against Richard's side, letting the heat of his skin steal the dark thoughts from her mind. Ben would be furious and betrayed, of course, but his reach does not seem to touch them. Alex settles beside him, and Richard wraps an arm around her, pulling her close, so she can rest her head on his chest and listen to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heart. It is not what he wants - he wants something more - but it is what she needs, and he is happy to grant her that. He lies perfectly still in utter silence, breathing in the scent of her. It is possible he knows some guilt for the stir of arousal in his mid-section as Alex cosies up to him a bit more, one hand on his chest, but Richard is as skilful a liar as Ben, even when the object of his lies is himself.

-----

Things begin to happen.

Jill comes to the hotel one day, breathless and out of sorts, hammering on the door until Richard wrenches it open, disturbed by her anxiety. It is grim news: two shot dead in Widmore's office. She brings a videotape of a beating, and Charles' eyes on the film are precisely the way Richard remembers them, gimlet and challenging, as he brings down the butt of his pistol onto the unfortunate skull of his victim. Richard remembers the man as a young boy, blue-eyed and stubborn, circumventing authority at every turn. Widmore, fifteen, having to be dragged back to camp after being found wandering in the jungle, claiming he heard voices, shouting that he is in charge of his own destiny and will do what he wants, that there are no such things as rules or laws in their savage world. He thinks of Alex being dragged into the Hydra against her will for a meeting with Ben, telling them she will do as she wishes whether they like it or not, that she hates them all, and dislikes the comparison.

Two days later, at the urging of a frantic voice on the telephone, Richard bursts from the hotel room, walking as fast as he can and not stopping until he finds Adam waiting at the appointed meeting place, full of tales of an uncovered station, something of Dharma left hidden in Los Angeles.

"It doesn't matter if Ben moves the island or not, now," Adam tells him, as though Richard does not already see it, crystal clear. "If they have captured this station, they have all the equipment necessary to track us again and again. We can't elude them. It's going to be a war to the finish this time, Richard."

Richard leans in, hands wrapped around the hot mug of tasteless cappuccino Adam ordered for him. The hush of the coffee shop is unpleasant, not in the least comfortable. Rather, it is the breathless silence of a world on the cusp, full of speculative anxiety, all the wrong people listening in. He drums his fingers on the Formica, not nervous per se, but more alert than he wishes to be. There are not many others in the place, and it has a dingy air, not like his usual haunts, but then again, it is Adam who instigated the meeting.

"I haven't received communications from the island lately. Any word from Ben?"

Adam gives him that detestable look, a combination of smugness and disappointment. He is a pessimist, all glasses half empty, and seems to actually draw satisfaction from plans gone awry. "You didn't hear? They have Vladivostok." The Listening Post is the main source of communication off the island, and Richard sighs. It is a profound blow. "We're sending in a unit, but frankly..." His voice trails off, but his expression, startled and grieving, speaks all Richard needs to know.

"We're on our own now," is all Richard will tell Alex after he comes back from the hour-long debriefing.

They change hotels, twice, registering under different names both times, just in case. The clerks - not their own people this time, because everything is off-kilter, everything is chaos - see the way Richard's eyes travel over Alex as she explores the new lobbies, fingering the same dog-eared pamphlets, and give him hard looks when he registers them as Jonathan Cohen and daughter, Adam Smith and niece. They arch their eyebrows as he takes her hand, drawing her close. It is due to the strength of his frosty glance that they do not whisper until he and Alex ascend the stairs.

For once, Alex becomes grateful for the French her father taught her, though of course, he gave her lessons solely motivated by guilt, imagining that in another parallel universe, she would have grown up singing "Frère Jacques" and reading d'Aulnoy's "_L'Oranger et l'Abeille_", perhaps may have spent her adolescence poring over maudlin Baudelaire and reading Dumas in the original. Her newest passport, where her name is listed as Carol Linnae, proclaims her as Swiss, from Romandy, a resident of Neuchâtel. She spends long hours curled up with guidebooks, memorizing the names of the streets, important features of the areas she should have wandered, and occasionally notices that when she mentions a place to Richard, his eyes gleam as though in recollection. How many places he has been, what all he has seen, remains an ever-increasing mystery.

Her disguise becomes immaculate. There is more hiding in plain sight, speaking to the housekeeping and front desk only in fractured, struggling English, chatting in French to the hotel's more sophisticated guests in the restaurant where they take their meals. Gone are her tomboy clothes, the careless attire of the island, replaced by the items purchased from expensive boutiques. Good clothes, fashionably French, though she lingers at Top Shop more that she should, impressed, though slightly bewildered to find such an array of clothes after a lifetime of faded jeans and Ben's old shirts. Alex studies _Vogue_ as though it might tell her how to become a woman, how to grow up, and for the first time, the full impact of what it means to be motherless hits her.

News comes, of two people, shot in their sleep as they slumbered in the beds of the last hotel room. Richard receives a pale, distracted visitor whose hands flutter around her windblown hair as she chokes out the truth in gasps and sobs. Widmore, naturally. He found their last location, went to their old room with two armed cronies, killed the guests inside, believing them to be her and him. Richard pictures the fall of autumn brown curls across a white pillowcase, the cold steel of a gun pressed against a girl's temple, and feels his throat go dry. He pours brandy for the messenger, but after she gulps it down, she leaves, a broken woman teetering on high-heeled shoes, headed back to the strange sanctuary of the island she fought so hard to leave.

"We're leaving," Richard tells Alex when she steps from the shower in a cascade of steam and perfume.

And so they do. Amid the chaos of movement, there are brief moments of happiness, brightly flaring in Alex's memory. Standing in le Jardin des Tuileries in the bright yellow summery sun, eating lemon and coconut iced cream as they walk the neat rows. Arm in arm with Richard on le metro. She pretends not to notice the gun on Richard's hip, just beneath his suit coat, or the focus of his eyes, always straight ahead and wary. A quick flirtation with the Louvre. Musée National des Arts et Metiers, lost in the exhibits as Richard paces, looking hard at the displays and realizing he remembers when what the world now refers to as antiques were practical and functioning and thoroughly modern. He never lets down his guard. They are being chased. Widmore now knows they are off the island, and while Richard doubts the man is clever enough to locate them, one can never guess at what Charles Widmore will do. They run, and hide, albeit through a route of beauty which Richard selects, giving Alex fleeting glimpses at joy and normalcy amid the panic. An airplane over the ocean finally takes them off the continent. It is the wrong ocean, of course, but brilliant blue for all of that, and Alex finds herself wishing, as she clutches Richard's hand during the final descent, that they could fly over the Pacific. A part of Alex wonders if she could see it from the sky, her island home. It has been months since she last walked the jungle.

"Soon," Richard promises. "Soon." But she no longer asks him when.

Mostly, there is fear. When word comes, which is rare, it is uniformly negative. Aldo, dead. Ivan, dead. Blurry photographs, hastily developed, arrive one day in a large envelope: Greta, gagged and bound, inside a room neither Richard nor Alex recognize. The question lingers between them, unspoken: who else? Ben, of course, will be just fine, as always, as ever. As for the rest, it is fate's game. Faces shift, loyalties blur. John Locke goes back to the bunkers to assist Ben. Amelia and Ryan Pryce, sensing the tide has turned, offer a truce with Widmore, information in exchange for their lives. He dies, she lives; she always did have a higher security clearance. Tom shows up at the hotel in Montréal one day, badly beaten, with a suitcase full of large U.S. bills and the sombre news that the barracks were destroyed, leaving only rubble. Alex cries for the things they have lost, though her memories of the yellow house were never very happy in the first place.

"We're lucky to be alive," Richard reminds her gently, pulling her down onto his lap as he sits on a chair, holding her tight. He looks at Tom, one of the few he would bother to explain to, almost defiantly, waiting for questions, but they never come. Tom knows enough about exile to understand the way Alex wraps her arms around Richard's neck, cries against his shoulder. He raises his eyebrows, considers, says nothing, and sips the dregs of his cooling coffee.


	6. vi

"War is a game that is played with a smile. If you can't smile, grin. If you can't grin, keep out of the way till you can." - Winston Churchill

vi.

They have three days of peace, which seem to drag on endlessly for a while, then end in a jolt, spent quick as lightning. Alex, knocked off her feet by the sudden trans-continental journey, can barely remember the shadowy grounds of the forbidden Dark Territory or the rush of smoke in the jungle. She fixes her longing on her most recent and temporary home, startled that it too is denied her. She is surprised that a person can actually learn to long for the odour of petrol and the endless soggy fish 'n chips doused in vinegar and loamy beer scents from nearby pubs. It takes her by surprise to find she misses the whoosh of the Tube and the flashy red buses more than she now misses her small bedroom back home, or her island, or even her father. This time, though, she makes no protest and utters no complaints. More than anything, she does not want to be completely alone here, in their strange new world. Furthermore, she does not need anyone to blame, except of course for Ben, who she will never entirely forgive for everything that has happened.

Montréal is more chaotic than London, and Richard is no longer there with her most of the time. He drifts out in the early morning, so quiet she never stirs, and comes back just as she is ready to claw the walls with anxiety and boredom. Most nights he leaves again, for business he will not speak of in her presence. They have not come to Montréal for pleasure, or for relaxation. For Richard, there is work to be done. For Alex, there is only waiting.

After disappearing for two days on assignment, Tom returns. His visits alleviate some of the monotony and his presence makes life easier for Alex, for though the cityscape is unfamiliar and the world is skewed and Richard is called away for hours at a time by strange contacts she does not remember from her childhood, having Tom there makes it a little more like home. Nothing about him has changed. He treats her the way he did when she was eight, half a lifetime ago, but instead of being frustrated, sometimes Alex welcomes it. Days assume a familiar pattern, and when Richard goes out - as he does, every night - they sit in her room play endless games of chess or scrabble or poker, with a sports channel on low in the background, Tom humming under his breath, smelling of pine needles and whiskey and the peach-scented cologne he splashes on when he goes back to his own room and its many comforts, including Arturo.

"Do you have to go?" Alex asks as Richard pulls on his jacket and heads towards the door.

Outside, the sky is faded gold in twilight, the clouds ribbons of dark purple. Richard looks at Alex for a moment, silhouetted against the waning light coming into the large picture window. He finds his dark leather gloves and pulls them on, then nods.

"What is he making you do?" she asks, gesturing towards the safe where Richard keeps his important documents. She does not have the combination, but somehow she knows the information. "That letter he wrote you. I saw what it said. He told you to remember your responsibilities, that you have work to do. So, what is it you have to do, Richard?"

He cocks his head thoughtfully for a moment, then turns away without a word. The door shuts closed behind him silently, and by the time Alex gets to the door and raises up on tiptoe to see out of the peephole, he is already gone, leaving no footprints on the thick carpet beyond the door, making no sound as he goes down the stairs; a ghost.

Tom waits a moment before speaking. "Your turn, Alex."

"I'm tired of this game," she tells Tom as she sits back down, giving him one of her glares, though without any real energy behind it.

Tom leans back in his chair, twirling one of the pawns between his fingers. If he were a different man, he might be impatient. Arturo is certainly waiting for him by now, down in the hotel bar, while he is stuck here with a sulky teenager. Tom can picture Arturo clearly: that knowing smile, those sultry eyes, drinking Southern Comfort and lime shots, tapping his fingers to the beat of the jukebox. He imagines the lean body and smiles, looking away from Alex. "Come on, kid. Take your turn," he urges her.

Alex waves him off. "I quit. I'm bored of chess

"You can't just quit, Alex, now get on with -"

Her hand smacks across the board, sending pieces flying onto the carpet. Raising one eyebrow, Alex looks at him challengingly, temper sparking in her eyes. "I said I'm finished, okay?" Glancing past Tom, she looks at the closed door nervously, wondering what it is Richard has gone off to do.

Tom's eyes narrow slightly, ensuring that Alex does not forget who she is dealing with. For a moment, the kindly face she sees most often gives way to a hint of annoyance, and he looks the part of a man who could help Ben lock Karl in a cage, who could kidnap a boy and shoot a man. Then his expression softens. "Ok," Tom drawls, holding his hands up as though she were pointing a gun at his head. "Calm down, Alex. You don't want to play chess, we won't play chess. How about Caribbean Stud?" He smiles. "I seem to remember I owe you fifty dollars from last time. How about you give me a chance to win it back. Double or nothing?"

"I don't care about that," she answers, dropping into her knees and reluctantly picking up the pieces. She places them back on the board carelessly, then turns away from the table, discouraged, her thoughts on Richard. "You can keep the money."

He does not look like the Tom that so frightened the plane crash survivors, with his grizzled fake beard and cold eyes and rough laughter. This is the Tom Alex remembers from childhood, who taught her things neither Ben nor Richard would, like how to use a baseball bat and open tightly sealed jars, how bait a hook and break into computers and understand the rules of American football. Tom, who used to recline on the front porch of Ben's house around twilight, watching the slow sink of the sun into the water or the hazing of the clouds as they parted, revealing star-spangled skies, singing lullabies to her when she was small. He is friendly and interested and not usually one to pick fights except on orders, though he is happy to end them.

"What's on your mind, Alex?"

"I hate this. I know what's going on," she says significantly, then shrugs. "Sometimes I wish he would win," Alex says softly, sinking down into her customary chair and eyeing the chess board without interest, not bothering to consider the placement of the pieces, which are haphazard and chaotic.

Tom glances up. "What did you say?"

"Widmore." She emphasises the two distinct syllables carefully, like an incantation, pronouncing them delicately. "I said, sometimes I wish he would win this stupid war. Would that be so bad? Then we could go home, and Ben -" she shakes her head as though brushing off an irksome fly, though guilt crosses her face for a second before she can master it. "Well, he couldn't control anything anymore." Crossing her arms over her chest, she eyes Tom challengingly as he looks at her, his eyes hard and unforgiving. "Oh, what?"

"You don't have the first idea what you're askin' for, kiddo," Tom replies, and though he speaks mildly, there is a certain weight to his words. "Never met Chuck Widmore, did you?"

She looks back at him, defiant. "Yes. Ben told me he was still around when I was a baby."

Tom whistles, taking his rook off the board and twirling it through his fingers. "Kid, I could tell you some stories about when you were a baby." He thinks of Ben, nearly two decades younger, his face more open and his eyes more innocent than Alex could ever remember, and how Ben had to fight for Alex's young life against Widmore's objections. "Suffice to say, Widmore's not a nice guy. You think Ben's bad?" He shakes his head. "Trust me, Widmore's worse."

"Nobody is worse then Ben," Alex assures him coldly. "Not even -"

She stops, falling abruptly silent, and bows her head at Tom's deadly look. She looks at her pawns and the pieces strewn across the board, avoiding Tom's eyes, but she can feel him staring at her in disbelief, and understands what she has just spoken is unforgivable. She is silent, lost in thought as Tom clears away the chess set and finds a deck of cards for them to play with. Eventually Tom speaks, directing the conversation down a new, less troublesome path, and Alex responds lightly, pretending it is easy. Still, in secret, her convictions remain, and she assures herself quietly that she is right.

__________

"Hello, Alexandra," speaks a voice from behind Alex on the morning of the third day, as she descends the stairs into the lobby, intent on gathering up fruit and muffins from the hotel's free continental breakfast. Amid the blur of gentle, early-morning French, the stark English, the resplendent BBC crisp of the accent, causes her to stiffen on the last stair, hand clenching the railing, white-knuckled. She turns around, very slowly, to find a older man - hale enough to be clinging to middle age, though older than Ben and therefore to her mind, old - standing a few paces above. There is something wrong with him, she knows at once. It is not just the trace of familiarity, the absolute dead certainty that she has seen him before. Though he seems drained, even weary, danger lurks just beneath the surface. It is an older danger than her father's, and more frightening. Ben's anger shines in the flint strike gleam of his eyes, his intense stare unblinking, but otherwise he is mild and gentle and quiet and almost even kind, sometimes. This man is his opposite. Repressed fury is writ on his angular face, his tense stance, the way he holds his mouth as though a sour taste pours perpetually over his tongue. Ben hurts and captures and kills when he has to, going with the flow, accepting what must be done, but does not seem to revel in the gore. This man is an old lion who derives intense satisfaction from every bloody wound.

"Do I - know you?" Alex asks softly. That dismissive gaze has raked over her before, she is absolutely sure. For a moment, she considers that he could be one of her father's people, a long-lost island resident, called back into service. They are practically crawling out of the woodwork these days, all the men and women once set away, and those who left of their own free will. Then she thinks better of it. He does not look the sort to take orders from anybody.

The man draws one step closer, his eyes never leaving her face. Perhaps he is thinking about his own daughter - who was once his pampered princess and is now wasting her inheritance scouring the world for a cowardly, pesky beau who, though she will not see it, is utterly beneath her - but probably not. He would be unlikely to make such a comparison, aligning this stolen daughter, the Frenchwoman's child, with his own precious Penelope. He surveys Alex on entirely unemotional terms; just the facts. The girl is pretty, in a way. Her dark hair is the opposite of dear Penny's brilliant blonde. Blue eyes, darker than Ben's. He never had an opportunity to see the Frenchwoman up close, but imagines the girl takes after her mother. If she were her father's daughter, she would have already come at him swinging, armed to the teeth. She is wearing a sundress - _that tomboy? _He remembers her barefoot in jeans, climbing trees, wandering the jungle, all filthy limbs and ripped hems and hair a riotous tangle; Benjamin's little beast. Alex's feet are bare except for brief slippers. She smells like Richard. Even after years and years of absence, the man can recognize Richard's scent clear upon her - smoke and spice and danger, danger - and beneath that, the scent of the jungle. There is a French lilt to her voice, though of course she is feigning; he remembers the urgent English of the pest at age three or four, calling out for Daddy, for Benjamin, and the insolent usurping boy going to her always, indulging her every whim. He remembers her at Ben's knee, reciting Latin in a clear bell voice punctuated by laughter, and scowls. It still grates on him that Benjamin, who never belonged with his people, initiated the child in their language. He does not answer Alex's question, just looks at her the way he always has, with scorn and annoyance and careless contempt.

"He was a fool to bring you to us, a fool not to dispose of you then, when he had the opportunity to do it cleanly," the man speaks, lips twisted in something like hatred, though Alex does not understand. How can he hate her? She has given them Hell, some of her father's people, and she is not their darling as she was at five and six, but she does not even know this man, in his expensive clothes, reeking of some pricey cologne which does not suit him. The man launches himself closer, so that she can smell the scotch on his breath. "I always knew you would be his downfall."

Alex's eyes widen, then widen some more. Thoughts of breakfast, of investigating her surroundings, or of rousing Richard from rare sleep, are forgotten. She backs away, stumbling, and hits the wall hard, bumping her head so that light crashes before her eyes. _Charles Widmore_, she screams silently, blood in her veins flowing faster, heart in discordant rhythm.

Widmore walks towards her slowly, unhurried. "Where is he?"

"Who?" Alex asks, almost not speaking out loud.

He sneers at her coldly. _And Benjamin insisted she was such a bright girl_. "Richard Alpert. I know you are travelling with him, so do not attempt to lie to me, girl. Is he still upstairs?"

Nodding on command, too bewildered to consider lying, Alex shrinks back against the wall. "Yes," she speaks as he comes closer.

"Perhaps I will have a word with him, when this whole affair is over. Maybe once the island is mine again, he will realize the mistake he made when he attempted to cross me." Widmore shakes his head, craving the leather and MacCutcheon comforts of his office back home. He is tired of the hotel, tired of the hunt and the games and the Frenchwoman's brat staring at him in slow horror. "Pierre! Andrew!" he speaks, snapping his fingers, and all at once, two men step into the stairwell.

Alex barely has time to scream before one of them grabs her, and then everything goes dark. The brisk, fresh air of a moment ago is replaced by stale humidity, and she can see nothing. Clawing the bag over her head, she tries to breathe, her throat clenching, her lungs filling with some foreign substance, be it poison or drugs or the gas that - though she does not know this - Richard and her father used to kill the Dharma people on the island. She cannot scream. She cannot do anything. Her legs give out beneath her, spilling her onto the ground, and someone drags her forward, lifts her up. Vaguely, she becomes aware of shouting, banging, raised voices, the gunning of an engine, but none of that penetrates her mind, consumed as she is with ripping through the fabric that engulfs her, desperate to draw clean air into her burning lungs.

She hits the ground, hard. It is pavement, not the soft carpet of the hotel lobby that she falls upon, bruising her knees, scraping her elbows and the palms of her hands. There is pain but she pays it no mind, too consumed with breathing. Her muscles are limp, lulled into submission by whatever Widmore's people gave her, and she slumps down on the ground, coughing.

Tires squeal a few yards away, and suddenly Alex sees brilliant morning sunshine and breathes in the crisp, refreshing air, freed. Someone lifts her, but instead of walking towards the hotel, they move away from it, toward the cars parked in a distant part of the lot. The person holding her shifts her closer, and then all she can see is sky. She notes this, does not dwell on it. For a few moments, she thinks of nothing at all.

When she wakes up, slow and easy like someone catching up to their present time, not like jerking awake after a blackout or nightmare, Alex is lying in the backseat of a car. Someone has taken time to make a pillow for her head out of a man's suit jacket. Her hands are folded sedately, her tangled hair smoothed off her face. The gentle rhythm of the car informs her that they are on the move. No sound from the radio. The air conditioning system, circulating cool, fresh air through the car, is on high, and she can finally breathe. The eyes looking back at her from the rear view mirror are deep fawn brown and darkly lined, and then, finally, as her panic dissipates, Richard turns to her from the driver's seat.

"Are you hurt?"

Alex shakes her head, not trusting herself to speak. Her heart beats wildly as she thinks of Widmore's face.

Richard's voice is like a tether dragging her back into reality, back down to earth. "You're safe now. They're gone. They won't find us again."

Alex sits up a bit but then, dizzy, slinks back down. She looks out the window from her strange vantage point, seeing only the tops of trees and the high rises of buildings, and gives her heart a minute to stop hammering. "What happened?" she asks, finally, voicing her bewilderment, confusion and panic.

This time it is Tom who answers. There are traces of fury glinting in his eyes as he looks at her. "Charles Widmore happened," he speaks finally as Richard drives on, and Alex covers her eyes, sick to her stomach as they speed towards the airport.


	7. vii

vii.

Portland, Minneapolis, Chicago, Los Angeles. The cities fly by in glimpses, too short. Alex begins to grow accustomed to living in the airports of the larger metropolises. Long nights, dozing half-asleep on padded benches and those curved chairs attached to miniature television sets that drone on and on. The dead, still air surrounding the potted palms that she actually touches, her hands lingering on their bark like caressing a lover, even though these ones are rooted not on familiar soil but in the dismal atmosphere of the airports, too bright. Crush of crowds. Gleaming white sterility of the bathrooms with the artificial lemon scent that makes it hard to breathe. Newspapers, magazines, all chock full of news, but none of which she wants to hear. Her eyes glaze as she examines yet another screaming, bold-print headline, imagining what the newspaper would report on her world. _Island attacked by crazed megalomaniac millionaire! Charles Widmore kills 15 in brutal attempted coup! Alexandra Linus' life in chaos! Nothing is as it seems! _Sitting with Tom and Richard in an endless procession of airport bars, hands roving the buttons of a novelty jukebox, playing songs that make the other patrons sigh with memory, songs she does not recognize.

One day, hot summer, news comes in the form of Mikhail Bakunin, wearing sunglasses and, for once, _not_ wearing the old Dharma jumpsuit. They are staying in a tiny, but clean and cosy, little motel off the highway, the last kind of place Widmore would look, and knock comes, startling them from a three-way game of poker.

"We have reclaimed Vladivostok."

Richard leaps to his feet with leonine grace. "When?"

"Two days ago. We are in communication with the Flame. Our people have it. I spoke directly to Bonnie." Alex has never before been so thankful to hear Mikhail's north-western Russian accent. Tom, interrupted in his breakfast, drops his fork with a clatter as he jumps up too.

"What news from Ben?"

Mikhail's old dislike flares briefly across his face as he speaks of Locke. "John Locke came back to the island with many supplies; they are well stocked now. They have the Temple and mean to strike for the Tempest soon. I trust you understand what this means, Richard? Tom, yes?" Both men nod, though Alex looks perplexed. "If they are successful, it will mean regaining control of the island, at least temporarily. However, we cannot trust to that, not that alone. Even if every last member of his company is killed, Widmore will continue looking for the island. He has the resources to buy new ships and planes, to hire more mercenaries. The solution," he speaks, looking hard at Richard with his one good eye. "The solution must be final."

Richard nods, reclaiming his chair. He presses his hands together. "Does he mean for me to take care of it?"

"Not yet. We have no means of tracking his whereabouts, but there are plans. I will not speak of it here," Mikhail says, looking around suspiciously. He has not gotten as far as he has without being extraordinarily alert. "Are you certain this place is secure?"

"Presumably," Tom pipes up, but that is not the answer Mikhail needs to hear.

"Then we will walk. Come with me, Richard, please." He opens the door, hand resting on the gun in his pocket, ever the alert soldier. The sunglasses go back over his eyes, though anyone who looks him in the face can still see his scars. "We will not be gone long," Mikhail tells Tom. He pauses to look at Alex. "Does she know?"

Alex stares at him. "Do I know what?"

"No. Not yet," Richard speaks, almost inaudibly, but not so silently Alex cannot hear him. He spares her a glance, but does not elaborate though Alex asks again. "Tom, you'll stay here with her?"

"Of course."

When the door shuts, Alex sinks down onto her bed. She heaves a sigh, then looks up at Tom questioningly. His eyes meet hers, apologetic and understanding, but he shrugs; it is not his place to say. Alex picks up a book, feeling angry, and pages through it, her silence radiating with fury, but she cannot concentrate through the swirl of emotions that echo in her brain, filling her head with more and more questions nobody seems capable of answering. Finally, she throws the book against the far wall and falls back against the plump pillows, irate.

"He's only looking out for your best interests, Alex," Tom offers, his voice softer than usual. "Trust me, there are some things you don't want to know," he tells her, but that's the problem: he's wrong. She needs to know. Bad news of home is still something of home, something to hold onto. They are not telling her what she needs to know.

"Is it Karl?" she ventures after a moment.

"Karl?"

"Is he still alive, even?"

Tom presses his hands together, pleading no contest; one can almost hear him thinking _namaste_. "Don't, Alex."

It hits her, then, that she has known all along. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes, Alex, I'm afraid he is." Tom does not elaborate. How could he? He is not equipped to tell this girl, who is not so much girl as woman-child now, that her own father was the one who killed Karl, snapping his neck clean in two. He supposes she can guess. They both know Ben's fingers itched to do the deed back when Karl and Alex went everywhere hand in hand, professions of love on their juvenile lips.

She looks at him, doe-eyed, not tearful, lost in memory. _Where are we going, Karl? Will you name the stars with me, Alex? _She looks away at the window. _Hey Alex, look at this! _"Is that what Mikhail meant?"

Tom shrugs. He is just as adept at lying as the rest, and it looks natural on his kindly face. "Probably," he allows, as she turns on her side, away from him.

_____________

Richard does not touch her anymore. Alex notices, though she pretends not to, and does not speak a word about it. Perhaps, she originally guesses, he is overly conscious of their partners, of Tom and Mikhail and all the rest, who show up for a day or week or month without warning, who fly them here and there. Maybe it is the speed and the travel, bringing them to new and unfamiliar ports of call, though she cannot imagine Richard disturbed by their surroundings, for he seems to know them all. He finds his way with a peculiar sixth sense, hunting down familiar streets, looking at modern buildings and seeing what once stood in their places. Sometimes, she tries to coax him into interacting with her, but Richard is more and more moody of late. He sits, sombre, at the desk, trying to write a report for Ben, his fingers splayed across the empty page, fingers stained with the ink of the pens he sometimes snaps, misjudging his strength as he dwells on this thought or that. When the phone rings, Richard, who has always been quick with his reflexes, ever alert, does not seem to notice. Sometimes, Alex wakes up in the middle of the night, and inevitably he is awake, staring blankly past her when she goes to him. The day he slides her arms down from his neck and walks away is the day she stops trying.

"Has Mikhail called?" Richard asks one afternoon as he walks in. He glances up at Alex, a brief double take, nods at the package left open on the bed. "What do you have there?"

"It's from Ben," Alex explains, but says no more.

Richard nods. He is not very talkative of late either, though in his case, he is distracted by his work, emotionally entangled with it. A frustrating experience, to be taking orders from a leader so far away, a flawed man at that, rapidly spiralling downward. They all did, eventually, no matter how pristine and immaculate they originally appeared when he selected them for leadership. Ben, as far as Richard was concerned, had lost his purpose years ago, but to his credit, Ben had lasted longer than some of the others. He was willing to do, Richard knew, what needs to be done. "Mikhail?" he asks again, shedding his suit jacket and removing the tie. "Have you heard from him?"

"I'm not your secretary," Alex replies, though without venom. She looks away as Richard studies her. "How would I know?" she adds, "I was gone all day."

He sizes her up, his eyes narrowed. "Really."

"Yes." She points to the shopping bags set in the corner. "I needed some things." She does not speak a word about Juliet, nor the newest recruit Rachel, whose telephone numbers Ben had included in the letter, and whom he had instructed her to make contact with. There are some things a girl needs to do by herself.

"You know it isn't safe, Alex. After everything that's happened -"

"I think I can take care of myself," she answers defiantly, refusing to acknowledge memories of what happened with Widmore. _Anyway, you're never here_, she thinks, but does not add. "I told Tom I was leaving, and he said that was fine." Proudly, a touch haughtily, she lifts her chin. "He asked me to meet with Juliet for him. She was here to obtain some information. I gave her your files. She said you weren't getting very far with whomever it is you've been interrogating. I wrote the names on your list down for her."

Richard turns away, refusing to take the bait, refusing to fight. He has lived long enough to know temper will not solve anything, that his anger will only alienate Alex further. It is particularly frustrating after how far they have come, though, to realize the result of ignoring her these past few weeks. She seems to hate him, or - almost worse - feel nothing at all. "Did you?" he tosses casually over his shoulder as he hangs up his jacket. "How is Juliet?"

"Better," Alex acknowledges. "She has -" but then she stops, not wanting to sacrifice any precious information, not even to Richard. There is power in finally, finally knowing something he does not. "She sent me over some new data for you, and some names. You're supposed to kill these ones," she says instead, holding out the paper. Richard turns to her, surprised, but Alex affects her most blasé gesture. "Juliet doesn't treat me like a child. She understands that I know what's going on."

"Do you," Richard says mildly. "Look, Alex -"

"She gave us the Kalashnikov. That and everything else is in the safe," she interrupts him. A brief smile finds its way to her mouth, rather like Ben's predatory curve of the lips. "I watched you open it one day. I know the combination."

"I would have told you it, if you had asked," he tells her, and notes Alex's shock. "Listen to me, Alex. I would have told you anything, if I'd thought you really wanted to know. I wanted to keep you safe. I thought it would be easier for you this way."

She gapes at him a moment, then shrugs. "Well, it wasn't."

"Then I'm sorry," Richard says, and that is rare. Once more, stronger than before, he longs for the island, for his usual pursuits: ships in bottles, long novels, walks through the jungle in the early morning rain. Killing, of which he is entirely capable, does not please him. He has always done what needs to be done, acted as a good soldier, but it sends him off balance, as much as he expertly feigns otherwise. "I won't keep you out anymore."

Alex nods sedately, sits down and folds her hands in her lap. "Okay."

"If you want to be a part of this, if you do not want any further secrets, you need to earn their trust. Not mine," he adds quickly, and Alex stares at him. "Tom's. Mikhail's. Juliet's. Most importantly, Ben's. They don't know if you can be trusted with sensitive information, or if they should continue to treat you like a child. You will have to prove you're something more. Now go pack your things. We're flying to Brazil tomorrow." He considers telling her that very early on, when she was very young, the first thought of having her follow in her father's footsteps had arisen in his mind, but he decides to withhold that. Alex is not entirely done being a child, let alone completely prepared for a normal adulthood. She should not be forced to consider eventual leadership. Besides, Richard has not made up his mind entirely, even now. Dismissing the topic, he sits down, not prepared to reach for her. Something has changed between them, already. As much as he wants to, she seems different to him now, out of reach. A woman, with secrets. She is reclusive, pulling away from him as well. His mind is too consumed with thoughts of business, a dozen recent deaths. His focus is on keeping her alive, and the rest of his people, as many as he can protect. Tom's questioning gaze still burns through his mind, as well. For the first time, he can feel the weight of his age crashing down upon him, and the guilt, too human, that rushes through him when he considers his desires.


	8. viii

**author's note for this chapter:**  
1. The line "A hundred voices call his name in Hell" is inspired directly from a line of **angeldylan628 at livejournal**'s amazing Richard/Alex!fic "Chasing Our Tails", which I highly recommend.  
2. I wasn't 100% certain about the Cure quote used in the beginning, but I decided to go ahead and include it anyway, since that was what was playing when I wrote most of this.  
3. Please keep in mind, this chapter is set 4-6 months later than the previous one. If time seems strange to you, that's why. :)

* * *

_Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am home again  
Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am whole again  
Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am young again  
Whenever I'm alone with you  
You make me feel like I am fun again_

_However far away I will always love you  
However long I stay I will always love you  
Whatever words I say I will always love you  
I will always love you _ - The Cure "Lovesong"

viii.

Months stream by, punctuated with Widmore sightings, news both bad and good, travel, constant scares. Winter comes around for the second time; over a year off the island, a year since she last saw home. Her second November, December, January away from the world that makes sense. Sometimes when Alex awakens in the pre-dawn light, her pillow is damp from crying, but the dreams never linger, leaving just wisps of visions: a blur of streaming sunlight and tall swaying trees. She no longer remembers the smell of frangipani, the texture of a banyan tree. Occasionally, she will recite the names of the things she _does_ recall, though they slip through her fingers easily like silk, faded like old photographs left to wilt in the sun. _Hydra station. Pala ferry_. She can see in her mind's eye the north beach inlet where the waters were still and green as a lagoon, the places in the jungle that only her people's eyes will ever notice. Names, faces. _Oliver, Isabel, Bea Klugh_. She recites them in repetitious litany, a charm against the theft of memory.

There are new names, new faces in place of the old. Richard lets her review the files, reading the data their people have collected. New contacts come to the door, meet them in alleys and quiet pubs and dark shadowy riverfronts in the dead of night. None of them replace the people left behind, but she has grown up, and does not acknowledge that except to herself, and sometimes fills her mind with the quiet poetry of _Juliet, Ryan, Greta, Harper. _

They have been in Miami six weeks, and Alex has begun to make a habit out of going out each night, alone. A myriad of excuses trail from her lips: going for coffee; needs to walk; can't breathe in here; _just looking around, Richard, honestly, I'll be fine! _This evening is no different. She sits cross-legged on her bed, poring over the telephone directory. Running her fingers down the neat columns of print, she selects destinations not far from the hotel, looking for something different, then disappears into the bathroom. When she emerges, her curls are shinier, lacquered, flowing deep dark tresses down her back, so far from the girl she was a year ago. There is something of a gleam to her lips; they are slick and glossy. Richard observes all of this in a quiet fashion, pretending to read the reports as he watches Alex prepare to go. He does not miss the way she looks at her reflection in the mirror for just a moment, fingertips trailing over her jaw, her throat, nor does he fail to notice the shoes she puts on: tall impractical heels seemingly too dressy for the rest of her attire.

Old habits die hard. Richard finishes reading the paragraph of the file, then stares straight ahead at the wall, counting three minutes. It is rare for him to feel impatient, but he does so. Tap, tap, his fingers on the table. That is odd; he does not normally fidget. He is usually patient, stable as a rock, as an island. Finally, he tosses the files into the safe, grabs his jacket and goes to knock on Tom's door. A moment later, he breezes out into the sultry dead of Floridian winter.

Richard finds her a fifteen minutes later, standing in a long queue outside a noisy, crowded club. His eyes widen in surprise as he watches her from across the street, noting the practiced jut of her hips as she is pulled forward out of line by the bouncer, allowed to pass beyond the velvet rope. She has done this before, he realizes, and it floors him. Even more surprising is her attire. Before she disappears into the darkness beyond the doorway, Richard sees what she was wearing under the casual jeans and long-sleeved shirt, now discarded. The black skirt is a flimsy swath of cloth, under which her legs are completely exposed, long and gazelle-like, no more bruised knees. The cut of her shirt makes it difficult for him to breathe. His chest tightens and he clenches his hands as the bouncer takes Alex's arm and directs her inside, pushing her into the mix.

"Hey, hey you can't just -" the bouncer begins as Richard storms across the street, his walk predatory, and steps in front of the waiting throng. Richard raises one eyebrow, dangerously. "Yeah, man, all right, here you go," the other man gives in at once, lifting the rope. Six kids dart inside with him before control can be re-established out front, but that is neither here nor there. He has eyes for only her, scarcely noticing the dancers who step aside to avoid him as he moves through the room, hunting.

Across the darkened room, he finally sees her. Alex leans against the bar, carrying on some kind of conversation with the bartender, her fingertip tracing the edge of a frosted glass, the dark amber contents of which Richard does not speculate. For a moment, he stays where he is, just watching her. It is perplexing, as though time has rushed forward in a great dollop, for Alex is no longer the Alex is remembers, not quite _his_ Alex, the way she was months ago, when she would rush to him for a kiss when he walked in the door. After months of awkwardness, never knowing what to make of him, Alex has regained all the confidence she had on the island, the same strange optimism, the needless independence, making him unnecessary. Secrets have deciphered themselves for her; the world makes sense.

Richard stares at her, wanting her, letting his gaze linger on the exposed thighs, taking in the curves. He considers going to go, making up for the distance and the absence and the disregard. Then, however, a man approaches, chatting her up. Richard watches, unable to decipher the words they exchange. Comprehension comes when Alex shrugs, nods, drains the rest of her cocktail and allows the man to guide her out towards the middle of the floor where the other dancers are.

"What's your name?"

"Carol." The lie leaves Alex's lips smooth as satin, not an ounce of hesitation. Richard raises his eyebrow, listening in. "What's yours?"

"Robert." He is plainly a tourist, a gentle blonde with a slight Ivy League crispness to his accent. The man looks Alex over appreciatively; from across the room, where Richard stands, it looks like a sardonic leer. From Richard's vantage point, Robert's eyes seem to trail over Alex's body, slipping down all the newfound curves, the angles and swells that were not there before, when they first left the island. "You're not from around here, are you? You've got a pretty accent. What are you, French-Canadian? Quebecois?"

Alex takes his hand for the slow dance, swaying lightly to the music. "No, Suisse," she informs him, laughter in her throat that Richard has never heard before. There is a hint of grown-up in her voice as she asks Robert questions about the city, the places a person can go and get lost in, streets down which - in Richard's mind - she might walk never to return. It is small talk, words tumbling out of her mouth while her mind is detached, elsewhere, but to Richard, it is unnerving. The man, Robert, flirts.

Richard is across the room swift as lightning.

"Look, I didn't mean anything," the man tells him, removing his hand from Alex's waist and putting his hands up, like a man caught in the middle of a bank heist. Blonde tousled hair, a handsome Grecian sort of face: he is young, no more than few years Alex's senior, and backs off almost instantly as Richard approaches. There is no hint of predator to his face, no darkly mocking leer, just an innocent kid asking another to dance, like something from the normal life Alex might have had if fate had let her. "I'll see you later, okay," Robert mumbles to Alex, bewildered. He wanders off towards the bar in search of something strong to chase away the ice that formed over his heart when his eyes met Richard's.

"What are you doing here?" Alex asks. It is a casual question, not an accusation. Her gaze settles on his face, betraying modest interest. "I thought you were reviewing the files."

The question throws him off balance, another rarity. When Richard does not reply immediately, Alex walks sedately to the bar, not trying to escape his company, but waiting for him. She orders a coke and drinks from a bright straw, but the childish drink has the opposite effect, it forces Richard to see the contrast, to see that she has grown up some. It is not the clothes necessarily, or the lip gloss or whatever it is she has done to her hair. Those are tools, props. Even without them, in jeans and watching the Saturday morning cartoons back at the hotel, which she adores because they were never a part of her childhood, she will still be older than she was when they left. For Richard, who does not age, it comes as a bit of a surprise. All at once, he realizes, it is January.

"You're seventeen."

"That's right," Alex informs him with a sad sort of smile. "As of yesterday. Don't worry, I know you never remember birthdays." For him, she understands, the world moves at once too slow and too fast to keep track of things by the usual calendars. Back home in the tropics, Richard reads time by the subtle shift of seasons, too minute to be noticed by most. Here, time eludes him.

"You should have reminded me."

"Why?"

Richard's brow furrows. "Why not?"

"We don't celebrate your birthday, why should be celebrate mine? Besides, I don't exactly feel like celebrating yet. It's not the same, without the people I knew, without my dad." There is no fury behind her voice when she speaks of Ben. "I'll wait until we go home."

Richard orders a drink to stop the bartender from lingering. He thinks of the way Alex kissed him, months ago, and the way she has stopped crying, stopped asking to go home, stopped giving him a reason to hold her. "I shouldn't have interrupted you. That boy..."

"Robert? I only met him tonight," Alex allows. "We were just dancing," she adds gently. "In case you were wondering."

He mulls over the fact of her being seventeen as he slowly tastes the drink he ordered. It is some kind of cider, rather too sweet, though he likes the tartness of it. It tastes earthy, kind of familiar, something he might have had once before. It occurs to him that perhaps a seventeen year old is different from a girl of sixteen, the sort of girl who held hands with boys and named the stars with them and still had glorious optimism and inexperience. Strange, that a single year could take her even further away. He glances away from her, towards the dancers that cling together and sway at the slow songs, bump and grind at the faster ones, and wonders what it is Alex wants, needs. Maybe she wants to meet someone, someone to take away the memories of Karl, someone to love. Briefly, the thought enters his mind of what it would be like to kiss her now, a girl more in tune with her sexuality, someone who knows how to want, and he sets the glass down on the bar, hard, startled.

"I'll let you get back to it. I shouldn't have come. You're old enough to be on your own." Richard looks at her, eyebrow cocked. The mundane files, the GPS print outs, await him back in the room, and he thinks of them wearily. "You have your gun, right?"

Alex laughs and drinks the rest of her coke. What is normal back home is abnormal here; in this world, young adults do not arm themselves with explosives and semi-automatic weapons in case wealthy old men try to catch them. She has been away long enough to realize that off the island, people have it easy. Survival is not hard-won or fought for, it just happens. People die in foolish ways, stepping off the curb without looking, their hearts collapsing from the foods they eat. The world here is foreign, silly even, but she likes it. "Yes, I do, but that's okay. I think I'll go back with you. I'm sort of tired, anyway." To Richard's surprise, she takes his arm and lets him lead her from that place, slipping back out through the side door and walking sedately back to the hotel. Richard sees Robert watching from the bar, his sad Adonis features shadowed with disappointment. He pats Alex's hand, resting on his forearm, lightly, and looks straight forward so she will not see the emotions warring on his face.

Back inside. The suite is large, spacious and clean, aside from the desk where Richard works, which is scattered with papers and packets of instant coffee - Alex's drink, not his. Richard hangs up his jacket, preparing to return to his work as Alex wipes off her lip gloss and steps out of her tall shoes. He picks up the telephone receiver to call Tom's room and let him know they are back, but Alex catches his hand and returns the receiver to its cradle. When Richard looks at her speculatively, she smirks.

"I can't believe after that scene you made, you're not even going to kiss me."

He does not require additional prompting. He cradles a hand against the side of her face, then steps closer, closing the distance between them. Cautiously, he kisses her, the faint roughness of his five 'o clock shadow intensely real against her soft skin. Alex's eyes shine, smoky blue. Her lip gloss, mostly wiped away, leaves the faintest remnant of sweetness and vanilla on her lips as she rises up on tiptoe to kiss him. One arm goes around Richard's neck, and she presses her other hand to Richard's chest. The press of her lips is gentle at first, then stronger, slow and hungry. She undoes the top button of Richard's shirt, then the next, her hands warm as they brush against his skin. That is really all the excuse Richard needs.

He brings her down onto the bed gracefully, cradling her head with one hand and smoothing back the hair from her face with the other. Kneeling over her, Richard touches Alex's face, then slides his hand down to her shoulder, then down her sides. He feels the faint rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, but has no further chance of exploration, because Alex takes hold of his shirt collar and pulls him down, down, into a long kiss that leaves them both breathless.

Richard's hand strokes Alex's hips and the tops of her legs, lingering over her smooth thighs. He guides her legs apart with his knee, bending down to kiss her again as he settles over her, less shocked, more graceful than before. His practiced tongue of a hundred decades' experience coaxes her lips to part as he runs his tongue lightly over hers, then delves in deeper. She arches against him, hips raised to grind against his sudden erection.

"Alex," Richard murmurs, drawing back to look her over. He smiles slightly, gazing at her face with rapt attention.

Alex's eyes shine with desire. "I was wondering when you'd notice I'm not a little kid anymore," she informs him. It's true, she's not, but she still is many things that should keep her off limits. Too young for him still, no matter what. She always will be. Vulnerable and away from home. The boss' daughter. That, worst of all, makes Richard roll onto his side, head perched on his hand, elbow bent, one hand on her stomach. She will always be too young, forbidden. He remembers her father as a solemn, unhappy young boy, neglected and abused. He remembers her mother, frightened, shaking hands wielding the gun, barely twenty. He remembers things centuries before that, recalls when parts of the ancient jungle were so many young saplings, the fragile twisting of new-formed vines.

Tom, good old Tom, rescues Richard from having to speak and ruin the moment or stay quiet and violate his conscience - not that, after all Richard has done, it would hurt him particularly to do something more against morality. He already has too many scars for that. A hundred voices call his name in Hell. One more sin would almost be justified. But Tom knocks on the door just then, and Alex shrugs, climbs off the bed and gathers clean clothes.

"I'm going to go take a bath."

"I can tell him to come back later," Richard offers, wanting to.

She shrugs lightly, tilts her head, studies him. Then she smiles vaguely. "No, don't. You've got important work to do. I understand."

Richard watches her as she takes a clean towel and disappears behind the closed door, turning on the heat lamp and the radio, running water. His hand lingers on the doorknob, considering, and when he finally opens it to Tom, who is bearing Chinese takeout and news that Mikhail's latest operation went as planned, the stain of guilt is off him. Maybe she is grown up enough after all.


	9. ix

Author's Note: This is a pretty short chapter; hopefully the next one will make up for it. :)

ix.

After one year and two months, Alex finally hears her father's voice, shaky on the long distance telephone wire. For all the delights of Vladivostok, their communications station, the Listening Post, is the least comfortable place Alex has ever inhabited. Chill wind blows against the metal top of the structure, and underground, even through the concrete, Alex is convinced she can feel the frost. They sleep in bunks, metal slabs screwed onto the wall. Despite foam pads and mounds of blankets, she can still feel the icy touch of the metal, the unrelenting hardness. It is much more difficult than sleeping on the ground, back on the island. Frostbite. A cold that settles in her chest for a week, making it difficult to breathe. Mikhail gets the flu, refuses to sleep, stomps and sweats and jabbers endlessly in brooding Russian with two Ukrainians who come to their door on Ben's orders. The air circulates sluggishly, stale, all artificial heat flavoured with cough syrup and warm vodka.

Ben is hesitant at first. He remembers the whirlwind, remembers the Alex who spat at him, cursed his name, ran away. He remembers being hated, told she would rather he had died, that _she_ would rather die than tolerate him. Alex on the phone is smooth and cultured, sweet, if withdrawn, and kind. Ben's self-preservation and stoicism evaporate when she tells him she is having fun travelling, that she misses him, that she loves him and hopes he is all right. She does not ask when they are coming back and he does not tell her. He gives her a name, an address of a bank, the number of an account, and then asks her to hand the phone to Richard.

They go back in London, and though Richard is fine, Alex is still oddly fatigued from the jetlag. She has her own room in the hotel but lingers long in Richard's, stopping by in the morning with two glasses of orange juice from the free breakfast downstairs, sometimes lying on his perfectly made bed reading the newspaper. Often, she falls asleep on his clean sheets in the long, purple and golden hours of the afternoon, when all the world is twilight. Sometimes, when he can, Richard joins her, pulling her close, kissing her cheeks or her neck or her lips, letting her hands rove over his body, trying to forget, but often, there is too much to do. The have the Lamp Post back. They have reclaimed the Siren and the Gate. Things are happening in Australia. An elderly man telephones one day, offers the help of a small band of contingency forces. Alex has never seen him before, but Richard recognizes him instantly. The former vice president of the Hanso corporation. He had escaped the island four days before the Purge, headed home for Christmas. The man does not recollect Richard, or, if he does, says nothing. He leaves them envelopes full of cash, a gun in a metal case, tells Richard to say hello to Jacob for him, leaving Richard, Tom and Alex perplexed.

"Better Linus than Charles Widmore," the man shudders, wrapping his long trench coat around his bent body, his brown eyes hinting of things left unsaid as he shakes Richard's hand. It is entirely possible he does not realize who pulled the lever in the Tempest, leaving the forty-some dead strewn across the bunker grounds.

Juliet Burke shows up two weeks later.

"Juliet!"

The fertility doctor looks harsher than what Alex remembers: pared down, more focussed. All unnecessary sentimentality has been stripped away, and the look in her eyes is opaque, blank, reminiscent of Ben when he tries to hide his feelings. She gives Alex a perfunctory hug, too overwhelmed with post-traumatic stress to utter a word about the island, despite the questions. After asking a few, Alex gives up. The four of them go to a restaurant, discussing business over dinner, and no one misses the fact that while Tom orders a glass of quality imported beer and Alex tries out the novelty of a Singapore Sling, Juliet drinks no less than six screwdrivers. Her hands tremble as she cuts her steak, choking on the first bite. She speaks in a tremulous monotone, offering one or two word answers to the questions Tom and Richard ask. No one wants to speculate about what she has been through. When she goes to the bathroom, Alex follows her, and once the door swings shut, Juliet puts her arms around the girl and cries.

She is gone the next day, packing heat, a crumpled piece of paper bearing two names tucked in her pocket.

A few days later, Alex receives a package in the post. The slim box contains three things: a letter from her father, four pages long; a loaded Desert Eagle with spare .44 Magnum cartridges and a dog-eared Polaroid photograph. In the white area, where a loved one might write a name, date or special caption, is an address - 121 Westminster Bridge Road - and a surname, Brookwood. She picks up the pages of the letter, each written in Ben's peculiar handwriting - he always did have a penchant for writing in all capital letters - looks sparingly at them, returns them to their envelope and wordlessly sets the package inside the air vent. After screwing back the slats, she flops down on Richard's bed.

"Alex?" Richard questions a moment later. He knows the answer to the question before he speaks it. "What did Ben want?"

She utters a sound, like a sigh or a gasp, and lays her forearm over her eyes, shading her vision. "What do you think?" After a moment, she looks at him. "I guess I shouldn't have expected anything different from him. We've been apart so long, I almost forgot what kind of person he is." She mimics Ben's voice harshly, heavily sarcastic. "Sorry I haven't spoken to you in, oh, fourteen months, but hey, Alex, be a pal and go kill some people for me, what do you say?"

Richard feels his heart stop beating. "He gave you a name?" He has lived too long to be shocked, but nonetheless, he is. Of all the people Ben might recruit, Alex is the last. She has been wholly untouched by his skilful manipulation, though of course, he coerces her directly in ways he would or could not do to others. Ben has always looked at Alex as something fragile and precious, his own, to be protected at all costs from the dirty things he needs to handle. Now, she is in the centre, part of the hurricane force Ben bears down on Widmore.

"Yes."

"Who?"

"One of Widmore's, of course, probably not top of the food chain, or he wouldn't ask me," Alex says, rolling onto her side to face Richard. Her voice sounds hard, jaded, older. She shrugs. "So that was what he sent me the money for. Compensation. He always did pay his people well." She offers a tight, mirthless smile. "I should have expected that sooner or later. I'm not a little kid anymore. He expects me to do my part."

"You don't have to," Richard explains. His pulse returns, thunderous. He thinks of Alex, his Alex, steely eyed, gun in hand. She has held a gun before, of course: pointed and threatened and aimed. But that has always only ever been in desperation, her against the world, passionate and afraid. She did it to rescue Karl. She did it to get away from Ben. She was never destined to be a killer.

She turns to him knowingly. "You mean to say, if I want you to, you'll do it for me." It is not a question. She knows where he goes when he leaves the hotel, despite the lies about meeting contacts and checking for information. Richard is good, very good. He does not return with blood on his hands, tellingly dishevelled. His appearance is as neat and calm when he comes back from a murder as it is when he walks out, but nonetheless, she knows. She can sometimes smell it on him, the hint of a struggle, the heat scent that stains his hands after a hollow round leaves a chamber, the trace of adrenaline and fear. "You've killed people for him before."

He does not lie. "Yes."

"I can handle it," she assures him, just a twitch of little girl pride at being grown up enough to get asked. Her eyes go cloudy, purple stained glass. "I'm so tired!" she admits, to change the subject.

Richard sits down on the edge of the bed, his expression sympathetic. It is strange. He is a corrupting force. He should welcome this. It will be in service to the island, he knows, if Alex does what she is told, but he cannot wrap his mind around it.

"Hush then," he tells Alex, "and go to sleep." Richard sinks down as she turns away from him, curling up into a sort of foetal position, and slides against her, pulling her close to him. He can feel her trembling slightly, probably crying, but she does not make a sound. He wraps one arm around her hip, pressing his hand over hers, and draws her back to rest her head on his other arm. The heat from her body is radiant; he can feel it everywhere his body touches hers, but she shivers anyway, claiming she's cold. He pulls her closer, holding her tight, nuzzling against the back of her neck, breathing against her soft hair, and within seconds, she is asleep.


	10. x

"Sex ran in him like the sea" - John Masefield

x.

One day Richard returns to his room in the hotel to find the bathroom door closed and Alex beyond it, screaming. Her sobs are ripped from her, loud and horrified, drowning out the reassuring whip of the fan, the roar of the shower. He looks ahead blankly for a minute, trying to decipher the problem, then something catches his eye and he understands. The gun lies on the bed, hot and somehow sullied even from his vantage point ten feet away. It has been used. He could not tell anyone how he knows this, but he knows. The Polaroid from Ben lies beside it, now crumpled. Alex's white blouse is balled up on the floor, smeared with drying crimson - not her own, Richard already knows this too. The pencil skirt is by the bathroom door where she stepped out of it, her kittenish heels - the ones she struggled to learn to walk in after all the years of practical hiking boots and going barefoot - have been kicked off and carelessly discarded. He has an instant to wonder how she got in without his key despite all his precautions, before remembering she is Benjamin Linus' daughter.

"Alex?" Richard raps his knuckles lightly on the bathroom door. Fear washes over him in a dark wave. Was she seen? Was she hurt? What has she done? What has been done _to her_? He does not ask if she is okay, knowing the answer to that one already. He doubts she is coherent enough to understand or answer him. Instead, he remains as calm as possible. She does not reply when he speaks. "Alex, I'm going to open the door now."

She is sitting in the corner of the wide shower stall as scalding water from the shower sprays across her arms and shoulders. Legs drawn in, arms wrapped tight around her knees, she looks towards the wall, crying open-mouthed. Richard's eyes trail over her body, not lustful, but drawn to the marks. A bruise unfurls across Alex's cheek, another bracelets her wrist: he can see finger marks where she was grabbed. There is a thin, shallow cut on her face. Someone put their hands on her, either in self-defence or for some nefarious purpose that turns Richard's blood to ice. Her position is such that he cannot see if there was any other damage. Blood swirls in the tub, not yet washed away by the shower's flow. It isn't hers.

"I killed three people," she tells him slowly, choking each word out painfully. Her face crumples as she dissolves once more into tears.

He twists the dial, turning off the water, and takes one of the big fluffy towels from the rack. The steam between them smells like rain, salt tears and vanilla. "Come on," he instructs, taking Alex's hand and pulling her up to her feet. He wraps the towel around her the moment she stands, then pulls her close, holding onto her for balance as she steps out of the tub. Even free of the hot water, cooled by the rotations of the fan, her skin burns. She falls against him lightly, her chin resting on his shoulder, eyes closed. Her brow smoothes as she slumbers against him, mercifully unconscious, though whether from sickness or shock or exhaustion or the safety of his presence, Richard does not know. He stands there for a half hour, not moving, barely breathing, afraid to jostle her lest she wake back up out of light sleep. Only when he is certain she is fully out does he pick her up.

She wakes up three hours later, opens her eyes and finds him there, sitting on a chair beside the bed where he laid her down. Her eyes burn fever bright, glassine as she looks at him. "What...." she begins, perplexed, and then comprehension dawns. The corners of her mouth downturn slightly. "Oh," she says softly.

Richard does not really want to ask, but needs to know. "What happened?"

"I went after him," she tells him, placing emphasis on the pronoun. "From the picture. Brookwood, the man Ben told me to kill. It would have been easy. I didn't have to get anywhere near him, I could see him from the car, except when I got the gun out -" she swallows heavily, wincing. Richard has a minute to wonder where she got a car in the first place, this island girl whose driving experience is limited to rusty vans lumbering through the clearing. His hands clench, wondering which of their people has been working with her, in secret, without his knowledge. None of them take care of her as well as he does.

Alex draws a panicky breath. "One of his people came around the other side of the car. Then another one came. They all had guns."

He pictures her like that, a gun pressed against her head, her own knuckles white as her fingertip trembled on the trigger, debating about the risk to her life. Alex is too out of it to notice as he pales and sets his jaw, more determined to win Ben's war than he has been thus far. She looks straight up at the ceiling, seeing into another place and time.

"They told me to get out of the car, so I did. Then they said to drop the gun. I knew if I did, they'd kill me anyway. One of them knew who I was, he told the others I was Ben's daughter. There wasn't a choice. I just closed my eyes and fired, and kept pulling the trigger until the clip was spent. I only opened my eyes when one of them hit me. He tried to grab the gun away. Somehow, I got his. I don't remember..." she trails off for a moment. "I - I shot him in the head. It was an accident. He pulled my hand, I couldn't stop." She sighs, looks blearily at Richard. "There was blood everywhere."

"It's gone now," he assures her, brushing back her hair from her forehead. Alex closes her eyes. Under Richard's palm, her skin is way too hot and fever-damp. "You're okay now. It's all over." Richard purses his lips, considering. Then he prepares to rise, but Alex catches his hand.

"Don't leave."

"I'm not going out. I was going to go to your room, and get some work done. You can stay here and sleep, Alex, it's fine. Just get some rest."

Her eyes open, then narrow. Irises the colour of lilacs and seashores bore into him before exhaustion makes her close them again. Her skin looks translucent in the lamplight, a picture of fragility, but she has a strong grip as she intertwines her fingers with his. "Just stay." She slides over, pulling back the blanket and sheet to let him in. "Sleep here with me."

It does not take much coercion. "Okay," Richard agrees. "Let me go check in with Tom, I need him to meet with Theresa for us. I'll be right back." He releases her hand with a bit of regret, then goes to the room next door. Tom is in just as much a hurry to part as he is; he has reunited with a friend he met on a business trip prior, or so goes the excuse. Richard pretends not to understand that the man is Tom's lover. He knows about wanting privacy, after all. After a few minutes of forced small talk, Richard gives Tom the file for Theresa, then waves a hasty goodbye to Tom's guest.

When he comes back into the room, Alex is still. For a moment he thinks she has already fallen asleep, and debates resuming his post at the chair, watching over her. It is not that he does not wish to lie down beside her; quite the opposite, in fact. But she is sick and sad and scared, ruminating on memories she never should have experienced. He shouldn't want to turn that sorrow into something carnal, take advantage of the vulnerability, though he does. He may not be a typical mortal, but he is not a god, and he is hardly infallible, after all.

"Are you coming to bed?" she asks, opening her eyes slightly. He stands frozen another moment, and Alex pulls the blankets back, smoothing the sheet with her palm where he should lay. There is fear in her bright eyes, but desire too, and Richard nods, giving up the restraint.

He strips out of the creased dark trousers, the suit-coat, the button up collared shirt - the things that make him Mr Alpert to the outside world, the props of his external identities. Richard stands for a moment, nude, letting her half-lidded eyes study him. He is not entirely sure if Alex has ever seen a naked man before, and the arousal grows even as he considers this. Then he looks at Alex questioningly and slips into the bed when she smiles, pulling her tight against him. Her lips are hot pressed against the hollow of his throat, and her teeth are sharp as they nip him gently on the earlobe and on the neck. In the humid darkness beneath the blanket, his hands cautiously rise, exploring the bare curve of her hip, cupping her breasts. Alex's cheeks flame, not with shame but with fever, as she curls her leg around his, her hands roving his body. He explores her back, running his palm up the inside of one thigh, hearing her gasp as his fingers find the dampness beneath her legs. She is uncharted territory, for all the short skirts. He slides a finger in cautiously, then another, ruminating on the tightness of her body as she whimpers against him.

There is guilt, but not very much, when he nudges her legs apart with his knee. Part of him understands that Alex is needy and vulnerable and broken and sad, and that he is a very bad man for feeding off of that, comforting her in physical ways that will do nothing for her emotionally, but the majority of Richard is simply grateful for the opportunity to be with her. It is more complex than a normal partnership. He has ever been a shadowy thing, an advisor whose lips are even less trustworthy than those of Judas. He is constant thing, drawing new leaders up, sending their pedestals crashing back down when they inevitably fail him, speaking mostly of the sanctity of the island, which much be protected at all costs. His was the midnight whisper that assured Charles Widmore the deaths of eighteen young, scared American soldiers were entirely necessary. He was the one who gave the instruction to don gas masks and head out to the Tempest, the reason Ben Linus went with his father on his birthday to personally say goodbye. He is the dark guide behind the scenes of a hundred tragedies, and still, like anyone fallible, capable of brief moments of shimmering decency. It is a testament to the way Richard feels about Alex, that he feels a bit sorry for doing this before she is ready, when she is still in such a state. It is a testament to what Richard is that he does it anyway.

He enters her with a deep breath and contrite prayers, murmuring her name as he takes her. For Alex it hurts, but only a little; Richard knows what he is doing. His hands cup her from behind, lifting her off the mattress a fraction of an inch, tilting her to a slight angle against his body, to make it easier on her. His lips against her mouth silence any cries. Slowly, slowly, her arms go around his neck. Richard kisses her, his tongue curved as he licks her bottom lip, coaxing a faint moan as she parts her lips for him. He pulls out, slides back in, presses a hand over her heart to feel the percussive rhythm. Alex's breath catches. Richard bends, pressing himself into her as he strokes her hair and lowers his head to flick his tongue over her nipple. His mouth moves over her, trailing downward across her chest, suckling her breast as Alex arches to meet him, the first strains of pleasure making her muscles sing.

Thrusts quickening but still controlled, Richard hisses sharply as Alex drags her fingernails down his back. Maybe she learned it from the television, maybe from a magazine, but regardless, the effect is welcome. Richard groans softly with pleasure, then takes her hands and presses them down against the mattress for a moment, to remind her who is in charge here. He opens his eyes, watching her face as he thrusts into her hard and quick, an erotic shudder going up his spine as Alex sucks in her breath sharply, grinding against him. He runs one hand over her breasts, licks a circle around her areolas, lets the edge of his teeth graze her nipples, then kisses her, claiming her mouth so roughly she cannot breathe properly when he finally lets go, but gasps for oxygen, uttering small murmurs of desire.

Sliding her thighs further apart, Richard drags Alex forward slightly by her hips, thrusting into her to the hilt. Alex breathes his name and draws one leg up, bending her knee. She wraps her leg around his waist and Richard runs his hand down her thigh. She has, he knows, forgotten about what she has done. The reality of his presence, the undeniable physicality, has begun chasing away the memories of terror and dark deeds. He tells himself that makes it okay. He cannot quite convince himself of this, what with Alex the way she is: still tearstained, bruises from another man's fingers marking a purple brand across her wrist and cheek, but Richard has lived a long time, a very long time, and adding one more lie to the pile can hardly exacerbate his guilt. Mostly what he feels is adoration, coupled with possessiveness as he looks down at Alex's rapturous face.

Alex draws him closer as the friction grows. Their bodies move in a unified chorus. Richard, experienced, takes her to orgasm once, then twice, muffling the sound of thin ecstatic cries with his lips. She kisses him desperately as he carries her over the brink a third time; they come in unison, Richard's body overwhelmed by the feel of her: tight, slick, heaving, hot. He presses kisses to her feverish forehead and cheeks, his warm breath cool to Alex's perceptions, and slides in deep, coaxing every ounce of pleasure from Alex's body. She shudders, muscles clenching then relaxing, secure in his arms. With a final thrust, Richard collapses against her, breathless and heaving, as wrung out with exhaustion and lingering pleasure as she is, though he recovers far faster, as is his nature. He nuzzles against her neck, breathing in the usual scent of Alex mixed with his own, mingled in a residue of pheromones, and then kisses her wet lips.

"Alex," Richard speaks as he rolls onto his side, unable to find the right words. He cannot very well tell her he want to worship at the temple of her body, or that she has aroused something unfamiliar in him, almost devotion. This is not the way he speaks. The words he wants to use hearken back to a forgotten age. All the vows and promises he imagines are in languages she does not know. He reaches out, clasps her fingers with one hand, while the other hand trails over her stomach, then lightly touches her hair.

"I love you," he tells her finally, and thinks he might mean it, but Alex is already fast asleep, one hand holding his, eyes closed, her brow smooth and worriless.


	11. xi

"Happiness always looks small while you hold it in your hands, but let it go, and you learn at once how big and precious it is." - Maxim Gorky

xi.

The strange part is, after so long alone, he really does mean it.

It would be folly to say Richard Alpert has never been in love. He has, but for someone like himself, who goes on and on after old loves are lost, it is almost like the first time. Of the people he once loved, not even bones remain any longer, and his feelings were often forgotten long before his lovers are reduced to ash in their graves. Love in the modern century is for the island alone; a constant, like himself. He is a man charged with an impossible duty, to protect an island that draws mal-intentioned enemies like a flame draws moths. There is always work to be done, perimeters to secure, new leaders to groom. Richard does not fall in love or develop deep affections, avoids the pendulum of alternate pleasure and abject misery, like the one Ben rides for Juliet, and refuses to experience the swooning some of their people endure at their weakest. Richard does not dwell on emotions any more than he thinks long on the past. If he did, he would probably go mad.

So it is like the first time. Tight nervous bands in his chest loosen when Alex wakes him up the following morning, slightly grim from the deaths of their enemies, but not at all remorseful about their encounter. He rises to the strange sensation of being watched and finds her propped on her elbow, watching him slumber. For a moment when their eyes meet, his betray foreboding, but Alex presses a butterfly kiss to his cheek and another to his forehead, then slides her bare thigh against his.

"Thank you," she tells him, when he is about to speak. Her eyes gleam silvery, still fever bright, and slowly she raises an eyebrow, smirks a little. A moment later, she pulls him down on top of her, though she is the one who ends up on top, straddling Richard's hips, arcing and swaying above him in time to the rhythm as he pulls her down against him, thrusting up and into her. There is no more guilt, just vague uneasiness when his mind wanders to his duties and his communications with Ben. As always, Richard's skilful lies are utterly convincing, even when he tells himself, full of dishonesty, that there is no betrayal involved, that Ben would ultimately understand. Alex's reaction makes it easier. Her shamelessness is infectious, as is her wonder at the novelty of their encounters. She finds him in the shower later in the morning, and he takes her against the cool tiles of the wall as the water pours down on them like rain, scented faintly of chlorine and rock salt.

Days pass giddy, intense and strange. Ancient as Richard is, Alex makes him feel almost young. A type of unexpected connection catches him, draws him away from important work at all the wrong times: during a meeting with Tom he cannot stop his eyes from straying over to Alex, who sits on the couch on the other side of the suite watching television, and his distraction is so thorough it takes him a few seconds to notice Tom watching. Butterflies tremble in his stomach when Alex walks into his room, knocks on his door. His skin becomes acutely sensitive, aware of her exquisite touch an instant before her hands or lips actually find him. He had thought he had seen everything, knew everything, but she makes it all different.

They live in a fantasy, for a little while. New addresses, different hotels. Work takes them to Berlin, then over to Moscow, then to Saint Petersburg. Letters from Ben - writ in Latin to Richard, Russian for Mikhail - arrive concealed inside ostensibly normal items like the covers of the books he has delivered to Richard or beneath the keyboard of the laptop he sends Alex, informing them they will be there a while. Widmore is on the move but being tracked, and the last of his associations and connections linger often in Санкт Петербург, as Ben insists on writing it in all correspondence. Alex learns Russian from the droning soap operas and is soon capable of instantly deciphering her father's letters to his most loyal of lackeys, Mikhail Bakunin. She picks up the curse words Mikhail mutters now and then when bad news comes, which is happily increasingly rare. When Mikhail catches on, he tells her bawdy jokes that she in turn tells Richard, though they seem less harmless and more dirty when she whispers them in bed, a smile on her face. Richard sometimes thinks of what Ben might say if he could see what is happening to the girl, but Ben is a million miles away, and Richard has never before been so immersed in the things he's wanted.

Business completes itself in Russia, and they board another flight, meeting Harper at the airport. Harper raises her eyebrows as he walks down the concourse with his arm around Alex's waist, but she confines herself to acting as courier and delivering yet another list from Ben. Crisp and businesslike, she shoots Alex a scolding look, then hails a taxi. Richard unfolds the crumpled piece of paper on which words are scrawled carelessly; not Jacob's dictation, he is certain of that, and feels a pang as he considers the island, wondering what indignities it presently suffers.

"Another boat arrived," Harper says, as though reading Richard's thoughts.

He does not ask for specifics, just, "when?"

"I found out about it a week ago," she says significantly, implying that her source might not have contacted her instantly. "We have the Lamp Post. They must be using some alternate means of tracking. Our landing strip is complete," Harper continues, nodding as Richard looks at her curiously. "Ben won't tell anyone what it's for. I trust him..." she says, as though trying to convince herself of that fact. "But I'm concerned. If Widmore finds out he can land a plane -"

"Give me a week," Richard interrupts, crushing the paper in his fist and placing it in his pocket. He glances at Alex, who is looking out at the world through the thick window of the taxi. Lowering his voice, though the driver seems intent on his radio programme, he continues. "I'll take care of it."

She blinks. "He's here?"

Richard looks at her, then away, without bothering to answer. For a moment Harper waits quietly, expecting him to engage her in conversation once more, and to report on their success in Russia, news she can take back to the island in several days, news which will not be enough to coax a smile out of Ben, but which will perhaps smooth his furrowed brow, maybe even earn her a warm glance. Like any obedient servant, she looks up to her leader with adoration, eager to be well received and appreciated. A futile goal, Alex might have told her, but Harper carries on.

"I didn't realize you would be coming too, Alex," Harper speaks, finally glancing over at the brunet, who looks at her distantly, tired from the flight. Jet lag is becoming a constant with Alex; even after sleeping most of the flight and practically sleep-walking through their two stopovers, she feels weighted down and drained. "Ben didn't mention you. When I made the arrangements, I only scheduled three rooms - Tom will be joining us after all," she explains as Richard turns to her, perplexed.

"I'm -" Alex begins, then falters. She is older now, but still a child in Harper's eyes, and her father's, and uncertainty steals over her as Harper gives her an appraising glance, even as she burns, frustrated by her father, who brought her into his war, then apparently forgot her existence. "Yes."

Smiling icily, Harper shrugs. "We'll check on availability when we get there. I suppose you can share with me, Alex, if there are no vacancies. If need be, we can order a cot from the desk."

Richard steps in, speaking in a careless, dismissive tone. "It won't come to that. Alex will be staying with me."

"But I only requested one bed," Harper adds. "Each room has a king bed." Shrewdly, she watches as Alex reddens. The truth clicks into place abruptly as she notices Alex's blush and the fact that Richard's fingers are splayed over Alex's hand. Richard, in her experience, is someone capable of civility but devoid of attachments or normal human feeling. What in someone else might look like a mere comforting gesture is for Richard something else.

"Then there is plenty of room," Richard speaks, almost a monotone, as though the conversation is not even worth animating his voice. "You mentioned you had a contact in this city," he goes on, changing the subject. "Who?"

Harper sits up straighter in the cab, glancing over Richard, who sits in the middle, then turning her attention to Alex. She remembers the first time she met the kid, when Alex was eight, and thinks of the brief words Ben has rationed out when speaking of his daughter, the implication of a highly inappropriate relationship - in Ben's eyes at least - with Karl. _Karl who betrayed us_, she thinks viciously. "No."

Something like amusement flickers over Richard's face. "No?"

"She's too young, Richard!" Harper says hotly. "You know that. She's barely sixteen!"

"I'm seventeen, actually," Alex speaks coolly, to no consequence.

"A child," erupts Harper meanly. "Ben's daughter! Do you have any idea what Ben will say when he finds out what's happening, what she's doing?"

Richard cocks his head slightly. "What is it she's doing, Harper?" he asks. His voice is mild, but the glint in his eye promises retribution.

"I know what's going on here," she says sternly, though inside she quakes with fear, knowing Richard is not someone to mess with. "And Ben will, too," she adds bravely. "As soon as I have an opportunity to speak to him. I don't think he'll be pleased, Richard. Bad enough Widmore is still alive, when you've twice been in the same city, and once encountered him. Yes, I speak to Tom too," she continues, running her fingers through her short hair and sitting up taller, trying to look imposing. "He told me what happened, how Alex's carelessness nearly cost her life when Widmore -"

"It did not!" Alex breaks in, rekindling her old temper. "I wasn't being careless, I was going to breakfast, Tom knows that, and -"

"Why weren't you armed?" Harper interrupts furiously. "If you had acted as you've been trained to do, and killed him then and there, the problem would have been solved!"

The cab driver flicks his gaze back at them through the rear-view mirror, looking nervous. Richard notices.

"Stop here," he instructs.

"We're sixteen blocks from the hotel!" Harper exclaims.

The taxicab pulls over onto the side of the street, the driver obedient to Richard's words. Richard stuffs a fistful of bills into the man's hand and beckons for Alex to open the door. They step out into the brisk winter, watching the taxi, having disgorged its occupants, speed hastily away.

"Which way?" Alex asks, shivering in the cold.

Mutely, Harper points her west. Without bothering to wait for either of them, Alex hurries off, face flaming with humiliation, fever and windburn, stamping her feet with each tense step. Anger sweeps over her: anger at Harper, for making her feel like a troublesome kid, someone who needed to be controlled and restrained and mistrusted; anger at Ben, for many things; anger even at Richard, though she cannot precisely say where he is to blame. _Could have stuck up for me_, she thinks violently as she storms onward, feeling the slap of the wind against her face.

"Richard!" Harper calls as Richard goes to follow Alex. "Listen to me. I don't know precisely what happened between you, but whatever it is, it cannot continue. You understand that. She'll be a distraction, she'll get in the way. You have work to concentrate on!" Catching her breath, she sighs. "Listen, I'm flying out to Oahu the day after tomorrow. I want Alex with me. There is a submarine there, one of ours, and we've calculated return coordinates back to the island. It's leaving in four days. Alex needs to be on it. I've spoken with Ben," Harper adds seriously as Richard turns away. "I talked to him several days ago. He knows about what happened, with Widmore, and he believes it's time for her to return home. He thinks she'll be safer at the Temple."

Richard stares at her. "She'll be safer on island? In the middle of this war, with Widmore sending another boat into the island's waters?"

"I don't question Ben's orders, Richard, I follow them. Apparently, not everyone can make that claim. Mikhail apparently had instructions to put her on a plane out to Maui yesterday, and Jeremy was going to pick her up and bring her to the secure launch. I'm not sure where the mix-up happened. Alex didn't seem to know she was supposed to be on a different flight. I'm guessing you had involvement?" When Richard does not answer, Harper continues. "I see. Well, then, I'll break the news to her when we get to the hotel, let her know not to unpack, unless you want to tell her?"

For a minute he does not reply, or even look at her. He watches Alex - a block ahead now, her dark hair tossed in the wind, her body rigid. Finally, fog engulfs her and Richard spares a minute to turn to Harper, his dark eyes irate.

"I want you to leave her alone."

Nonplussed, Harper gapes at him. "Richard, I'm not the one who needs to leave her alone. What do you think you're doing? Sixteen, seventeen - it makes no difference, she's still underage, and she's still Ben's daughter! Look," she continues, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "I know she's pretty, and I know we're on assignment away from home, but take my advice, Richard, and find somebody else. There are lots of pretty girls if you're lonesome, and -"

"That's enough," Richard says quietly. The look in his eyes is deadly, and Harper gulps, realizing she has gone too far.

"What about Ben?" she asks after a moment, bristling with pride for her leader. "I can't pretend I don't know what's going on."

"What about him?" Richard shrugs dismissively. A flash of memory provides him with Ben at fourteen, tired and hurt against the stones of the temple, partially obscured behind a swirl of smoke.

Harper looks at her feet. "I have to tell him. He trusts me. I have an important job to do -"

"Tell him whatever you want," Richard decides, glancing towards the direction Alex walked. "I don't answer to Ben."

Harper looks towards the fog too, a flicker of anger racing through her, though she suppresses everything she wants to say. "She does," Harper points out, a cool partial smile across her lips.

Richard spares Harper a brief glance over his shoulder as he begins walking in Alex's direction. "Not anymore."

_____________

"Alex!" Richard calls six blocks later as he catches up close enough to glimpse her waiting at the crosswalk. The light turns on, telling her to walk. He watches as Alex pauses for the briefest of instants, as though frozen in place by the sound of his voice, then moves on again, not bothering to wait for him.

Nodding to himself, Richard realizes he has expected this. Although Tom and Juliet have always gotten along well with Alex, the rest of her father's people treat her like a child, one particularly prone to making trouble. It is hard enough breaking her own view of herself that way, much more difficult for her to adopt a dismissive attitude towards the people that have, for all her lifetime, summoned her to Ben and dragged her places against her will, checked her travels through the jungle, followed and spied, stolen away the few friends she has known, even kept her captive. For the first time, he begins to understand that as much as Alex professes to miss the island and the jungle, she will never be able to go home again. Even if she does arrive on the island's sands again, her old life was too constricted for her to fit back into.

"Alex, wait," he speaks when they have travelled a block further, and this time she holds still, waiting a few seconds for him to catch up.

"Where's Harper?" she asks him coldly.

"On her own," Richard answers carelessly as they resume walking. "I have all the information I needed from her," he says, withdrawing the crumpled list from his pocket, smoothing it out and passing it to Alex. "She flies out the day after tomorrow. The sub is leaving from Hawaii in four days, returning to the island. She'll be on it." He slows down as Alex looks at him. "Look, Alex, if you want to go home -"

She shakes her head, continuing on, her arms wrapped around her body to shelter herself from the cold, and does not even slow down when Richard drapes his jacket over her shoulders. "No," she tells him after a few minutes. "No, I don't, not yet, unless..." She glances up at his face. "You're not going, are you?"

"Not yet," Richard replies.

Walking onward, Alex glances at the note, then hands it back. "I knew it. I'm surprised she didn't have a list for me," she adds, heavily sarcastic.

"It wouldn't come from her," Richard says. That is not how Ben operates, he knows from experience. He has no qualms about making his people do his dirty work, but he has an uncanny ability to know how to convince each one, and Harper, Richard knows, is the sort who would crush Alex's faith in herself, making it difficult for her to complete any assignment.

Nodding, Alex keeps walking. Two blocks from the hotel, she can see the reassuring lights, after the darkened, wintry industrial district she has just walked through. The light chases away the fog, welcoming. "Do you think he'll ask me..." she begins, then trails off, shaking her head.

"He might," Richard answers smoothly. "Does it matter?" When Alex looks at him sceptically, Richard continues. "When did you ever obey everything Ben told you to do?" he asks. "If you think you can complete the assignment, take it, make it your own choice. Or refuse. You don't belong to him, Alex. Harper was wrong. You decide what you want, not Ben."

"Easy for you to say," she retorts, but a weight seems to fall off her shoulders anyway.

Contrary to Alex's belief, Richard does not have that option, bound as he is to Jacob, but does not say so, not wanting to upset the equilibrium. "Come on," he speaks, reaching for her hand, surprised at the iciness of Alex's fingers. "We're nearly there."

____________

They sweep past Harper in the entrance lobby, ignoring her hostile, confused glances as she surveys Alex's faint smile and Richard's arm over Alex's shoulders. Richard knows there will be hell to pay for them both, once word gets back to Ben. He might not answer to Ben, but it is never easy, and rarely do leaders last once Richard no longer provides his allegiance. His own sympathy for the boy that was Ben still intrudes at all the wrong times. Jacob will have something to say as well, once he returns, but even though Richard measures time differently from others, it seems a long time until he will make his way back home. Instead of dwelling on Harper's sour expression, or the fact that as soon as Harper can screw up the courage, the situation will be reported to Ben, Richard draws Alex close as they ascend in the elevator, one wall of which is glass, providing a lookout over the city as they climb thirty floors up.

Hours later, secure in their suite, Richard orders champagne from the room service and they sip it lying nude in bed, watching the snow flutter down in great cottony tufts. The wind beats, glacial, against the window, but the room is cosy. Late in the evening, Alex rises from the mattress. She eats sugar-crusted strawberries, a specialty of the restaurant downstairs, while sprawled naked in a wide, curved chair by the darkened window, looking out into the night. The city never quite grows dark, the greyish sky perpetually backlit with pale pink ribbons, a flickering blue-green-yellow-red of the artificial neon aurora borealis. Distant city lights send yellow luminescence against the low-lying clouds. Stars flash, vying for attention. Alex studies the cars below, miniature from their great height.

Richard sits in the bed, watching her instead of the city, though the view from the thirty-second floor is immaculate. He has seen the scenery before, and will again. Alex's hair has grown longer, and the gentle waves fall past her elbow to her waist, dark and gleaming against her fair skin. Her body, naked, is cast in shadows as she waits near the cool glass, gazing down rather regally.

"Я тебя люблю Ричард," she whispers twenty minutes later, not gazing at him directly, but looking at his reflection in the glass. The Russian sounds practised on her tongue, stranger and more precious spoken in Toronto even than it did in St. Petersburg.

Richard smiles back, glowing. It is a test as well as a declaration, of course, and he has no trouble passing it, even though it will make her more suspicious of him. Richard cannot resist making a reply, though it may someday lead to awkward questions. Unlike Ben, Tom, Mikhail and the other closest, most trusted of their people, Alex does not know the complete truth about him, though she understands the fact that he does not age. Of course, Richard often assures himself, it is better she does not know why. It is enough, now, to admit that he has a longer lifespan than twenty of her own. Now, she is a part of that agelessness, a memory he will keep for an eternity. He wonders how anyone of seventeen simple, impossibly fragile years could possibly understand that, and believes that puzzle is enough for her to cope with.

"Я тебя люблю слишком, Алекс." Straight faced, he turns to her, his expression giving nothing away, testing her in return. Blandly, he speaks; he might be talking about the weather. "Пожалуйста имейте секс с мной."

Whether it is a credit to her studying or something learned from Mikhail's jokes, Alex understands. She reddens, though she smiles too. She understands enough of the language to rise up slowly, silhouetted naked against the darkened window, and to push Richard down onto the bed. She crawls slowly across the mattress and tangled sheets, catlike. Her innocent face and pretty pursed lips make her seem too young for the words that roll over her tongue; though Richard does not blush as she speaks, he would if he could. Alex's settles her bright eyes on him calmly as she whispers in the things she wants him to do to her, and she continues, gutter phrases trailing from pale pink lips, her still-innocent eyes studying him, until Richard takes hold of her hair, yanking her roughly against him, plundering her mouth with his own.

Richard, atypically, is late for a meeting the following morning, soreness coursing through his body as he tries to focus on what Harper is saying. He is barely focussed on Mikhail's rage over two fresh deaths and does not notice Tom's molasses-slow contemplation of the navigation coordinates Harper provides, the results of an equally late night with a friend from the city. He listens, nods at the right intervals, his mind recalling the details of Alex's body.

He returns to the suite and finds Alex resting on the bed undressed, her body highlighted by the brilliant winter sunshine. That is the last he thinks about work, though it is the raw energy and emotion from the news of the meeting that spikes his adrenaline as he goes to her. Charging across the room, he takes away the magazine Alex is reading, catches the knowing look in her eyes, and takes her from behind up against the window, the hint of voyeurism making it even more delicious. When he comes, he whispers Alex's name, sucks her neck hard enough to leave marks, and presses a hand to her mouth so Harper, in the next room over, will not hear Alex screaming his name in return.

For a little while, it almost seems perfect.

* * *

Санкт Петербург - St. Petersburg

Я тебя люблю Ричард - I love you, Richard

Я тебя люблю слишком, Алекс. - I love you too, Alex

Пожалуйста имейте секс с мной - Come sleep with me (ahem)


	12. xii

xii.

One morning, Alex does not wake up.

Richard, summoned by the dawn, gingerly shifts her aside so he can climb out of bed, albeit reluctantly. Beyond the window, everything is bright and fresh and new, the world clean and damp following the tumultuous storms that lasted a week, drenching much of Ontario, including their current home, Toronto. He dresses swiftly, in his navy blue suit, the crisp collared shirt, newly shined shoes - until he becomes the very picture of an ordinary businessman, a head-hunter, one of a thousand sweeping through the orderly city. Their news has been good lately, when he receives it. More of their people have returned to the island, and he sees his people less and less, but when they do come, it is always with promising news. Widmore's network is crumbling, and there has not been a renewed coup attempt on the island, though a strange boat still hovers in the distant island waters, far enough off shore to avoid an attack, close enough to travel with them as space shifts.

"Alex," Richard whispers, bending down to brush his lips over her temple; her skin flames beneath his kiss; worrisome, but there is no time to investigate. He has the coordinates, the meeting place, the time when Widmore's associates will be gathering, and any deviation from the plan could mean disaster. He cannot afford any mistakes, especially considering how long he has put this off.

"I will be back soon," he tells her, though Alex's eyes do not open. Going to the desk drawer and taking Alex's Desert Eagle, Richard slides the Remington 1100 under her pillow; it is lighter, easier for her to handle. _Just in case_. Something of foreboding flickers through his mind as he straightens up, leaves the bedroom and meets Tom in the suite's main living room, but it does not stop him.

"You'll keep an eye on her," he says to Tom, not asking.

Tom nods, sets down the newspaper he was reading. "Of course, Richard. You better go. Ben's calling at five and he's going to want confirmation."

The murder goes easy, as things always do when Richard is in charge. Bea Klugh arrives, unanticipated. Her calm, deep gaze eases the newer members of their team, which includes two of John Locke's people, island survivors, namely James Ford and - unexpected, even by Richard - Claire Littleton, the gun steady in her hand, a set expression on her pretty face. She has not forgotten Charlie, nor what he died to do for them all, and thinks of the message Desmond later passed on. _Not Penny's boat. _It drums through her head as she watches the man - one of Widmore's financial backers, though the man is a multi-million dollar entity to himself - bluster and cringe and finally cry, sinking dramatically down to his knees and begging for mercy. The tears make no difference. It is not just the money. The man is ruthless, and she believes Richard when he tells them all this man would kill them without blinking, given the chance. Fuelled by the recollection, Claire acts savagely, remembering how bravely Charlie died for them, and does not turn away when Richard performs the last act.

Some kind of island vengeance sets the afternoon into choreographed motion, making it all simpler and quicker than usual. They grab two other associates, and captured talk, even sing. They spill more secrets than Richard would have anticipated. Not even Claire protests when they are lined up afterwards and put down, execution style. The smoking gun, thanks to some complicated efforts of Widmore deserter Daniel Faraday, is marred with Widmore's prints before Richard drops it. They all know the authorities will be of little help in Widmore's capture, but making it difficult to function in the city as easily as planned improves morale among Richard's people. It will send a message anyway, telling Widmore without a doubt that they have gained the upper hand.

When Richard returns, he finds Alex exactly where he left her, despite it being past four in the afternoon. She has not shifted, nor stirred. The blankets lay in the precise formation with which they draped her previously.

Sinking down onto the bed, Richard touches Alex's shoulder, jostling her lightly. Beneath the strap of her tank top, her skin feels fiery. Furrowing his brow, Richard pulls back the blankets, exposing Alex, knees drawn up against her stomach, dressed as she had been when they had gone to sleep, in the cotton panties and the thin top. He always preferred her to sleep naked, nothing in between their bodies, but Alex had insisted the night before that she was freezing, despite the warm breezes of early spring, the heavy covers and the press of Richard's body against hers.

Alex's eyes are closed tightly, her lips deep red and pursed, contrasting sharply with moist, pale, luminescent skin. Strands of sweat-damp hair sweep across her forehead. Her hands, Richard notices, his heartbeat quickening, are clenched so tightly that her knuckles are bone-white. When he reaches for one of her hands and smoothes it, his eyes widen. She has dug bloody welts into her palm with her fingernails. Her chin trembles, her body shivers in the absence of blankets, but even when Richard kisses her cheek and shakes her slightly, then finally, with self-loathing, slaps her face lightly to coerce her to wakefulness, Alex does not wake up.

"Tom!"

The other man bursts into the room, his face shadowed with an expression of concern. Dressed in plain jeans and a white t-shirt, Tom looks the same off the island as on it, just as much at home among cars and coffee makers and electronics devices as he is in the world of palm trees, coastal breezes and unpredictable natural elements. He is a man few things can faze or upset. He is also friendly, observant and knows his place. Skilful observation has guaranteed he is not shocked to find Alex in Richard Alpert's bed, dressed only in underwear. He knew about this arrangement a long time ago.

"Richard. What's going on?"

"Here," Richard says, his voice a hard bite. He cannot say Alex's name. "Something is wrong with her. She won't wake up."

Tom walks around to the other side of the bed and stares down at Alex. "Hey, kid, you okay? Hey Alex?" Her pallor is disturbing, highlighted with brilliant red smudges across the high point of each cheek. He touches her arm gingerly, this kid he has known since infancy, but Alex stays still despite their raised, uncomfortable voices and Richard's hand on her shoulder, shaking her.

"She's burning up," Tom speaks the second his fingers graze Alex's skin. He wraps his fingers around her wrist, where the fading yellow remnants of a bruise remind them both of her vulnerability, and presses his fingers against the pulse point. The heartbeat is slight, feeble. "We need to get this fever down. Have you got anything? Ibuprofen? I might have something."

Thinking of the Temple, Richard grimaces. He should have seen her home by now. As much as he does not want to be separate from her, he is remorseful not to have put her on the plane with Harper. "Find it," he instructs Tom.

Tom rushes out of the room. He hurtles back in a moment later, carrying a bottle and already shaking out three white pills into his palm. Richard sinks down onto the bed and pulls Alex up into a sitting position, disconcerted by the way she slumps against him. Her head lolls on her neck. She feels like a dead thing despite the heat, limbs already limp, breathing fragile and difficult. Cradling her head, he leans Alex back against him as Tom gets a cup of water. "Alex!" he speaks, in the stern voice of a general. _Please_, he thinks, the desperate voice of a frightened lover, something he has not been for a very long time. "Alex, wake up!" Richard hates the way he has to shake her, and the fluid swing of his hand as he slaps her face, hard enough to force Alex to gasp at the abrupt pain, but it works. Her eyes, jewel bright, open for a few seconds. If Richard were anyone else but what he is, he would not be able to keep tears from his eyes or shake the tremulous vulnerability he feels on the cusp of losing her. Being himself, he looks almost unaffected.

"Here," Tom offers, holding out a glass of water.

Alex swallows the pills feebly even as her eyes fall shut, her mouth twisted against the bitterness. She turns slightly with the last of her energy, her cheek against Richard's shoulder, one hand lingering a moment by his neck, then slipping down, letting go, as sleep claims her. Richard pulls her close with one arm, his eyes meeting Tom's over her still body. There is no need to explain anything. Tom, reliable old soldier that it is, the best and most trusted of Ben's army, waits to be told what to do.

The tactics of field medicine run through Richard's mind, but this is different than taking out a splintered arrow or sewing closed a gaping wound with rough thread or plucking out a neat silver bullet. He thinks of the procedures learned in years gone by, all of which were taught to him as the height of modern medicine. Prayer, blood-letting, leeches, a tall draught of whiskey or slumber in the sweet embrace of chloroform.

"Run a bath," he directs Tom after a few seconds. "As cold as we can make it." As Tom hurries about his business, Richard pulls Alex against him. Her heartbeat is too slow, too gentle. Her breathing is inaudible despite their closeness. She shivers in his arms, pressing her face against the warmth of his neck like an animal too young to see, reading maps of heat instead of light.

Five minutes later, Richard carries her into the bathroom, where Tom has run a deep bath filled with cold water and tossed in an ice bucket's worth of cubes for good measure.

"How are you going to -" Tom begins, but he falls silent as Richard - barefoot, but in his trousers and shirt - steps into the frigid water and sinks down slowly, Alex in his arms. Thinking something about cojones, Tom watches as Richard sinks down gracefully into the tub, shifting Alex on his lap so the water that comes up to mid-chest on him washes over her shoulders.

"Ah," Tom remarks, nodding slowly in comprehension. "Listen, I got hold of Juliet. She'll be on the next plane, but its going to be a few hours until she can get here. She's in New York. We're lucky we caught her before she left for Florida. You sure we can't take her to anyone here? Or a hospital?"

Richard shakes his head. Alex shudders against him violently, her body reacting to the sudden icy chill after being wrapped in the strange heat of the deep fever. She does not open her eyes. "No," Richard decides, exhaling heavily. "Word is going to reach Widmore about what happened here, and he will be looking for us. Taking her in public is too risky. We all need to get out of the city, not be caught in it."

Tom shrugs and leans against the counter, feeling as though he is an intruder in a strangely personal moment, though Richard has not said to make him feel unwanted. He watches the way Richard cradles Alex to him, letting her lean back against him, stroking her hair and sweat-dampened forehead. There is something intimate about it, whatever the circumstances. "What do you think it is?"

Tom has known Richard for close to thirty years, ever since he defected from the Dharma Initiative and was discovered by Richard's people in the woods, back when Ben was an unruly teen in the Dharma compound with a notable penchant for blondes and a razor-sharp ability for gaining the upper hand in most situations. He has worked with Richard on countless assignments, spent long hours talking to him over campfires and late night watches and long, dull walks in the jungle, but he has never seen anything like real emotion in Richard's eyes. Surprise, yes. Richard is capable of frustration, even fierce anger on occasion, but nothing suggesting vulnerability, attraction, attachment. Tom feels himself stop breathing as Richard glances at him, sentiment writ across his face, his brown eyes pained and anguished and perhaps even afraid.

"I don't know," Richard says, very softly. That is rare. He avoids admitting lack of knowledge at all costs. Lightly, he strokes Alex's face. Her skin feels a bit cooler, but perhaps that is his imagination. He himself is freezing, though he tunes it out expertly. Alex trembles, her head tilted back against his shoulder, and Richard runs his hands down her arms, then catches her hands, squeezing them. She does not return the pressure. Her chin quivers, like someone about to cry, and Richard pulls her tight against him, pressing his lips against the side of her mouth and her cheeks in brief butterfly kisses, one hand stroking the side of her face. "Alex?" For a brief moment her eyes open a slit, irises amethyst, the whites of her eyes bloody, but then she closes them again. Richard cradles her head, his fingers searching the side of her neck for a pulse. It is less erratic, but not much stronger. "Alex?"

With effort, Alex lifts her head and looks at him. Her body is numb, though she can feel it shaking violently. She does not feel the water, does not feel Richard's touch as he lifts her chin slightly, peering into her eyes. When he kisses her, that mild heat from his lips, she feels a flare of something, but unconsciousness claims her before she can speak. It does not matter that she fights to keep her eyes open, that she concentrates her energy on staying awake. Darkness takes her back, against her will.

"This isn't working," Richard announces a few minutes later, his voice edgy, the way he sounds when Ben insists on dedicating their limited resources to fertility experimentation, the way he speaks when the island is threatened. He pulls Alex to him with both hands and stands in one fluid movement, ignoring the weight of his waterlogged clothes and the water that drips puddles across the expensive hotel carpet as he carries Alex out of the bathroom. He lays her gingerly on the bed, speaks to Tom over his shoulder. "Can you..." He does not need to finish. Tom steps out and closes the door quietly, respectful.

Richard towels the icy rivulets from Alex's body, then slides off the damp underclothes and tank top, clenching his jaw tightly as his eyes flicker over Alex's nude body. It is known to him now, each curve well mapped, the swell of her small breasts and the incline of her rising hips utterly familiar. There are small bruises - the marks of his teeth and hands, the stain of passionate kisses - on her shoulders and thighs, brands of ownership. He has explored this body, known it in every sense of the word, but he has never quite managed to comprehend the fragility, the brief moment of time it occupies, the fact that even as Alex blooms, she signs the contract of her own death, carrying on the inevitable march of time that mortals experience, of _birth growth failure collapse_. Richard has never quite gotten it through his mind that she could die.

He avoids thinking about that as he dresses her, for modesty's sake, in a clean nightgown he does not think she has never worn. Alex is like a rag-doll. Her arms and legs feel boneless, utterly yielding. Richard sits with his back leaning against the headboard when he finishes and guides her backwards, settling Alex's head in his lap. He strokes her hair, the damp tendrils still cool from the water's touch. He intertwines his fingers with Alex's, kissing the top of her hand, then her palm, then her wrist, where he can feel the faint, slow tremble of blood in her veins.

"Alex?"

She does not answer him, nor stir. Richard closes his eyes. He sees the sun set the way it sometimes does on the island, blood-red and vicious, dripping down out of the night sky as blackness fills in around it, all too quickly. He thinks of the statue crashing down into the surf, the old ancient ruin slowly washed away and reduced to rubble and ash. He imagines Jacob pacing in a quiet room, his face lit and shadowed by the flickering fire. He watches Benjamin Linus as captured in his memories stride courageously into the jungle, alone and not entirely afraid, chasing a vision in blue. That is time, that is how time flows, and it hits him with sudden ferocity. Everything he experiences dies, and he remains. That is the way it has always been and always will be, no matter how much he works to forget.

______________________

Nearly four hours later, abrupt loud pounding on the door indicates that Juliet has arrived. Tom leaps up from the chair where he was seated, attempting to concentrate on the newspaper, and hurries to the door, pulling it open frantically. Juliet stands in the hallway with a large suitcase on roller wheels and a medical bag. She is dressed in a beige skirt and a nice white blouse, looking the picture of normalcy in a world no longer normal at all. The distraught, incapacitated woman she had been months earlier, too shell-shocked from the events of the island to think straight, is gone. Juliet is Juliet once more, and with a glance at Tom steps into the hotel room, already commanding the situation.

"Where is she?"

Tom leads the way, opening the door. The room, shadowy now in late afternoon, is still and silent. Alex, somnolent, slumbers and Richard, awake but motionless, leans back against the headboard, one hand softly caressing Alex's hair, the other holding her hand. If Juliet is surprised to find Richard holding her, she does not express it. Instead, she sighs and sets the medical bag on the table.

"I thought this might happen." As Richard looks at her warily, Juliet shrugs. "She grew up on that island, Richard, completely isolated, almost never in contact with outsiders. Did anyone ever take her off the island before this?" At the negative, Juliet looks at him pointedly. "And I assume Ben did not have her vaccinated against common illnesses at any point in her childhood? Tom, do you know?" When Tom shakes his head, bewildered, Juliet opens her bag. "I'll need to examine her, but I can tell you that much for certain: she's never had exposure to foreign bacteria, the kinds of normal diseases an ordinary immune system learns to fight early in childhood, and without the vaccinations, it's unlikely her system would be equipped for this. Her body does not know how to defend itself. She's used to living in isolation, and admittedly, the island's healing properties have probably helped her avoid the typical illnesses a young child would face. How long as she been this way?"

"She has had a mild fever for a few days, though today has been the worst. She has been sleeping a lot, as well, complaining of some exhaustion and jet lag for a while," Richard answers at once. Each word condemns him. He has never been one for missing the details, no matter how oblivious everyone around him was. He looks away from Juliet, out the window, wondering if this is what it feels like for ordinary people, those with but a solitary seventy year lifetime, who waste it wrapped up in pursuits of flesh or bright glory, incapable of seeing the finer hints, the secrets, the cues, that he has learned to follow. "Before that, back in Russia, there were a few episodes of fever, a few other symptoms, but nothing lasting. It seemed like an ordinary virus."

"Because her body fought the bacteria off," Juliet surmises. "She has a strong immune system, or the symptoms would have worsened months ago, but we're not on the island anymore. She's lucky to have lasted this long. I cannot believe we didn't foresee this," she adds heavily, though by 'we' she means Ben. "We cannot count on her healing herself anymore. She's exhausted her resources." She nods to Richard. "What have you done for her so far?"

"We ran a cold bath for her, which she was in for ten minutes, and gave her Ibuprofen, 1200mg," he tells her. It sounds like exceptionally feeble efforts to his ears when he says that out loud, but Juliet nods briskly.

"I'm sure that's helped. Now, get up." Juliet finds thermometer, stethoscope; the trappings of her profession, from when she was in residency. Simple implements all, hardly capable of confronting whatever it is that makes Alex's cheeks burn high scarlet and leaves her exhausted, her eyelids not even fluttering when Richard lifts her slightly, rises, and lays her back down onto the bed. "Tom, can you take Richard downstairs, please. I need to examine Alex and I'd prefer to give her some privacy."

Both men begin to point out what should have been evident to Juliet the moment she laid eyes on Alex and Richard, but a steely glance from Juliet brooks no nonsense and she looks to them, impatient and exasperated. Richard Alpert is, after all, the devil with whom she signed a contract, the reason she ever set foot on the damned island. She is sorry for Alex, but not for Richard's suffering. Besides, she is in Ben's employ once more, even after everything, and so she is a field marshal, a general barking orders, tolerating no compromise, impersonal and professional. The cell phone conversation with Ben, as she waited in the airport for her connecting flight to Toronto, lingers in her memory. Ben's voice, tense and furious over the fear he wanted to subdue, echoes through her brain. _You will fix her, Juliet. _She nods as though bowing to the memory_. I will, Ben. Don't worry, I will._

"Alex? Can you hear me?" Juliet asks as she sinks down beside Alex on the bed. A touch to Alex's forehead, crude diagnostic tool that it is, is enough to detect the raging fever. She wonders what has distracted Richard so thoroughly that he failed to notice Alex growing sicker, but, of course, Richard does not operate like a normal person. She wonders at the last time he saw sickness and ignores the idea of him witnessing the sweeping of the plagues through burning cities. She finds a pulse at Alex's wrist and draws the blood pressure cuff from her bag. "Alex, I need you to wake up."

_____________________

"What's going on there, Tom?" Ben demands several hours later, through the static interference of the telephone. He sounds stern, commanding, ever the leader, but the edginess of his tone betrays something deeper, a fearful collapse, even panic. "Juliet was supposed to call me at five."

Tom grips the cell phone tightly, glancing towards Richard, but the other man is no help. He is sprawled in a chair, where he has sat immobile since being sent out by Juliet, his dark eyes open and staring at the opposite wall, unseeing. He does not blink, nor stir. "The doc's working on her, Ben," Tom speaks, trying to sound reassuring. "We don't know anything yet, but I'm sure Juliet's got it under control."

"I want to talk to her."

"She's busy, Ben. We should let her concentrate on Alex," Tom hedges.

Ben's voice goes icy. "Not Juliet. I want to speak to Alex. Give her the phone."

As though he can hear what's being said, Richard snaps out of his trance and shares a glance with Tom. Tom frowns a moment before speaking. "She's not really capable -"

"Tom," Ben instructs, scolding and furious. "I want to speak to my daughter. Now put Alex on."

Slowly, Tom rises from his chair. Conflict whirls through his mind. Ben is his boss, the man in control of his people's destiny, but he is the old boss and they all know it. When John Locke came to them on the cusp of the first attack, a half-dozen people following him back into the wilds, he claimed his rightful position; Ben just doesn't know it yet. He does not yet realize he will be replaced, cast aside, tumbled from his pedestal, despite the promises of _chosen _and _special _and _unique _and_ destined_. On the other hand, this is Ben, whom Tom has known from a callow youth, whom he feels protective towards even now, Ben for whom he would risk his life. Regretfully, he goes to the door.

"Sorry to interrupt you, doc, but Ben's on the line. He wants to speak to Alex."

Juliet opens the door, takes the cell phone and closes it with a snap, effectively ending the communication. Her eyes, bright, challenge Tom to contradict her, but he does not. Handing back the phone, Juliet bites her bottom lip. "It's for his own good," she tells Tom. "He has no idea the shape Alex is in. This will buy us a few minutes to come up with a story," she continues as he looks at her nervously. "He can't take the truth right now. It's crucial that he remains focussed. We'll have to think of something."

Richard looks at her harshly. "What is it?"

She shrugs, glancing back over to the bed, where Alex dozes, half in and half out of consciousness despite the injection of Modafinil and the methylprednisolone, both of which should have slapped her back to wakefulness. Alex's breathing is better now, more consistent and less shallow, but Juliet is not reassured.

"Tom, can you go sit with her?"

"Sure," he agrees amicably, and goes into the bedroom. He does not miss the fact that Juliet pulls the door closed behind him, muffling her speech from Alex.

"Sit down," Juliet instructs, knowing Richard will not obey. It makes her feel better though, a bit more in charge, to give orders and treat him like she would an ordinary visitor or typical patient, someone who trusts in her abilities. The curse of the island, which never let her delivery a healthy baby from one of their own, seems to have settled over her once more, worse than before. Alex, Juliet considers, trying to feel impersonal, does not have much time.

"Where has she been? What places have you taken her?" Juliet asks, though she has already surmised to some degree. Richard looks away slightly, then sits down, not responding. She reaches forward, her hand on his knee, slight sympathy across her face. "Richard? I realize that's classified information, but I need to know. Ben will understand."

Richard looks intently at her, his muscles tense, his posture immaculate. "Russia, Germany, though we have based ourselves primarily in London..." he begins, shaking his head. The cities blur before him, uniform in their modern beauty, darkly similar given the tasks they have had to carry out. His memory holds an image of Alex in each place, more important than the sights. "Brazil, France. Why?" He looks at Juliet questioningly. There is something of eternity in his stance, the cool stoicism of his body even as his eyes bleed emotion. "What is it?"

"I have a sample of her blood," Juliet says, holding up a phial before returning it to her purse. It gleams in the waning light, full of deep blood the colour of wine. "I need to find laboratory facilities before I can run it, but that shouldn't be too difficult. I have identification cards from Ben. I'd need to run an OptiMAL-IT to be absolutely certain of the malaria, but it's really the other I'm more concerned with..." She trails off, watching as Richard turns his gaze from hers, looking at the door beyond which Alex slumbers. "Richard," Juliet says, regretfully. She frowns, goes to him, touches his shoulder to bring him back. He looks into her eyes for a moment, which steals her breath and confidence, and she speaks more quickly and brusquely than she intended. "It's yellow fever."

It is a grim diagnosis. The world rocks on its foundations. Reality shifts, time spins and nothing makes sense. Richard gets up and staggers backwards a step, hands out to stop Juliet from patting his shoulder reassuringly. Scenes flicker before his eyes. Philadelphia, 1793. He can hear the old bells tolling, the shouts and cries of sadness. Haiti, 1802. The strange silence in quiet, stricken houses; streets emptied except of those who walked with unseeing, tear filled eyes, staggering grief-stricken through the stillness and the sickness. He had fled each time the disease had come, once even boarded a ship headed for the exotic borders of Siam, though of course, with his cursed feet on the decks, the ship had steered a course back to the island instead. Much to his chagrin and the destruction of the doomed on board, he had found himself back home, after all he had done to leave. Richard had been grateful for the return, in spite of everything. The jungle - where sickness could not follow, where the kiss of illness did not befall allies nor enemies - had been a sanctuary then. Decades had passed before he stepped off the island's sands again.

"What do you need to treat her?" Richard asks, looking hard and cold at Juliet. He walks across the room, pockets the crumpled envelop filled with hundred dollar U.S. bills, rests his hand on the doorknob. "Tell me."

Juliet shakes her head, her expression sad. "No, you don't understand." Her hands go to her hair, pushing back the strands nervously. "I can't fix this. There is no cure for yellow fever," she says, and astounds Richard with the failings of modern medicine. That something does not yet exist to cure an illness that decimated populations three hundred years before is a shock. "It will be up to her to fight it off, but frankly, I am not optimistic. I can ease her symptoms. She's dehydrated, but I can do an IV for that, restore some of the fluid balance of her system. If we can get hold of some nor epinephrine, I can work to correct her low blood pressure, which might help her regain consciousness without the use of other meds, but Richard, that's all I can do. I can't cure her." She sighs. "If Tom can get some supplies for me, I'll hook her up to a 0.9% NaCl drip. It will make her feel better." She looks at Richard sorrowfully. "We can make her comfortable."

He does not ask questions without already knowing the answers to them. "And then, what?"

Pursing her lips, Juliet frowns. "Richard...I don't know."

Together, they go into the bedroom. Alex is sleeping, though as Richard sinks down on the bed beside her, she stirs slightly, her eyes opening a fraction.

"Hey," she whispers, almost inaudibly, as Richard takes her hand. Her eyes glaze as she looks beyond him, to Tom and Juliet, and then she falls asleep again, as easily as closing her eyes.

"She's experiencing the symptoms of anaemia," Juliet explains. "It comes with the territory. She may have been haemorrhaging, and in any case her red cell counts are very low, though I'd need to run some tests if you want an accurate picture of what's happening. If we could have gotten ribavirin into her system at the first onset, it would have helped, but it's unlikely to contribute anything now. She's entered the toxic phase. Probably, after the malaria, her body was too weak to fight it. Tom," she goes on, summoning him forward, wanting something to do. "I need you to get some things for me." She writes them down on a list and hands it over to him. "I want to run an IV, see if we can increase her fluid volume some. You have something to let you access the pharmacy stores of a hospital, don't you?"

Tom nods. "I can write out an order, call it in and go pick it up. I've got my delivery man's jacket around here somewhere," he says, trying to be light-hearted. "You hang in there, Alex," he adds, patting her hand, but Alex does not respond.

___________________________

For three days, Alex slumbers. For three days, the phone rings itself off the hook. It is always Ben calling in a vain attempt to glean information from Tom or Juliet, who field the calls. When they can, more often than not, they leave it to ring, the shrill scream of the phone echoing around the silent rooms. Sometimes, though, Tom cannot help himself. He picks it up, hands it wordlessly to Juliet and waits for the inevitable storm to escalate as Ben's temper and concern grows.

"I want to speak to my daughter," Ben speaks coldly on the morning of the third day. He is exhausted. His sleep the past few days has been fitful, interrupted by frequent visions and nightmares, the sort of things he has not experienced since they took him to the Temple as a child and chased away the capacity for dreams. Achy, tired, disconcerted, he grips the red telephone salvaged from the Flame. "And so help me, Juliet, if you disconnect this line again..."

The excuses have run out. There can be no more lies, and Juliet, grimacing, knows it. For days they have come up with a dozen reasons why Alex cannot speak to her father, claiming she is downstairs at breakfast, that she is in the shower, that she has taken an afternoon nap. "Ben, Alex isn't well."

"So you made very clear when you called me from Detroit," Ben answers, his voice edgy enough to cut paper. "Now, put her on the line."

"She's can't talk to you."

"Why not?" he wants to know, icy. "Can't, or won't?" No one can blame him if he still pictures his untamed child, the raised-by-wolves daughter that was Alex when he knew her. He imagines her in her room, barring the door against his people, raw and mad and spiteful.

Juliet sighs into the receiver. "Can't." Ben falls abruptly silent. "I'm sorry, Ben. I should have told you. Alex is sick. More than sick," she adds helplessly, wishing she was there before him, so she might better gauge his reaction to the words. In spite of the anger she feels for all he has done to her, she knows she could calm him down, and that she is the only one who could. "We should have been up front with you, but I didn't know how to tell you. Ben, she's..."

"Put Richard on."

"He's busy," she answers, glancing across the open portico of their base, where Richard marches in the strangely bright sun, pacing.

Across the ocean, Ben closes his eyes, inhales slowly. "Put him on the phone, Juliet."

She holds it out wordlessly, though Richard pays no attention. Finally, Juliet passes it to Tom, wanting a reprieve. She looks through the arch to the room leading to Alex's. Alex does not stir. The IV needle taped to her hand looks secure, but Juliet goes to investigate anyway, just to have something to do. She smoothes her fingers over the tape, pressing it down, and watches sunlight glint off the fluid as it drips through the tube. In an hour it will be time for another injection, administering fresh medications into Alex's body, but although she does not mention it to either Tom or Richard, Juliet wonders if there is any point to their efforts. The diseases that rage through Alex's system are strong and old, experienced in breaking down a human body, and Alex, for all her previous health, is not equipped to fight back. Juliet pulls her hand back, not wanting to form the attachment. Ben's daughter has been somewhat of a daughter to them all; even she remembers a younger, ferocious Alex, the girl who would serve as her lab assistant sometimes, when she was prohibited from seeing Karl. But it seems certain that Alex will not make it. Even if she does pull out of it, there is no telling the lasting damage. Better for Juliet, who has lost so many people in her life, not to get overly sentimental.

She goes out to the balcony, decorated cheerfully with hanging baskets and black iron deck furniture. "Richard?"

He narrows his eyes at her, saying nothing, then sweeps past.

"I think -" Juliet begins, then falters. "Maybe you should go sit with Alex for a while. See if you can get her to drink something. The IV is doing it's job, but I'm still concerned she's not getting the fluids she needs."

Richard looks at her, the gaze at once piercing and vague, seeming to look past her. "Is she awake?"

"No, but you could wake her up if you wanted. The medicines in her system are waning anyway, it's almost time for another dose. Now would be the time, before I administer another injection."

He sidesteps Juliet and continues pacing, like a tiger. Averting his eyes, he jerks his head towards the inside room, where Tom mutters defensively into the cell phone. "Ben?"

She smiles sadly. "Who else?"

"Have you told him yet?"

"Not in so many words, but I think he's beginning to understand that this is serious. I believe he understands that she's failing," Juliet clarifies as Richard looks at her sharply. "But I haven't told him the diagnosis, only that she is sick and needs rest. He hasn't asked for specifics yet, just wants to speak with her. I - I haven't told him that I can't cure her. Do you think I should have?"

Ignoring this, Richard walks to the edge of their balcony, his hands clutching the steel railings. It is a long time before he speaks. "No. I think you were right. He does not need to know about this. There is nothing he could do to help." He draws a deep breath, frowning at the beauty of the view. "What are you doing for her?"

"The same. Her blood pressure is better, more stable. Nothing else has made a bit of difference," Juliet adds with a touch of pique. She is tired of having to do this alone. Tom knows Alex, of course, and cares for her the way someone might for their wayward niece, or the troublesome daughter of an old family friend, but he is reluctant to help, preferring not to get any more involved than necessary. Richard pulls away more each hour that passes, rarely acknowledging Juliet's routine reports other than to nod when she requests he go purchase some new medications. She does not blame him; Richard never was a creature of emotion, from what she saw. He is practicality and functionality, a person built for a single eternal purpose. Still, it is difficult, his refusal to talk to her about Alex's condition unless she forces him to. "I've been considering," Juliet adds. "I could try a course of ribavirin. My hopes aren't very high, but..."

"Do what you think is best," Richard says, clutching the steel railings so hard they bruise his palms. His voice is emotionless, flat and dead. "Do you think that will help her?"

Juliet shrugs. "It could. Like I said, I don't have much faith in it, but I doubt it will hurt her. I'd like to run a transfusion as well, give her plasma at least. She's lost blood, I'm not sure how, and her cell counts aren't reassuring me."

Richard nods, looking away. He sounds disinterested, withdrawn. "What will that do?"

"Revive her, maybe wake her up a bit, help her to feel less exhausted, less week. It won't destroy the virus in her system. Of course," Juliet adds, sighing, "there is the small matter of getting hold of blood. It would need to match her type, or come from a universal donor, otherwise her body would reject it and she would be in an even worse state than now. I'm reluctant, though. She might be experiencing a great deal of pain, which she would feel if she were awake. I have morphine with me, but I'm concerned about drug interactions."

"Do you have the equipment for a transfusion?"

Juliet nods, glancing at Tom, who is still bleating at Ben, trying to diffuse the long distance anger. "I'm sure we could get it. Tom has identification. It's an easy cover."

Considering, Richard walks past her, inside, to the room where Alex sleeps. She is in a thin nightgown, the straps bright white against the faint remnant tan of her skin. Sweat beads her forehead, though the large window is thrown open wind to tempt the gentle breeze. Her eyes are closed, her hands folded. It is the first time in two days Richard has gone to look at her. He knows the other two believe him heartless for staying away. They think he does not care because he has seen it all before, but it is, in fact, the opposite. He has avoided sitting with Alex as hope runs out because it hurts too much to see her fragility, and because he feels infuriating helpless in the wake of her sickness. He has shied away because the temptation to do things he should not has always been difficult to fight, and every second he looks at her drives him on.

"Then send Tom," Richard speaks over his shoulder, knowing Juliet is hovering in the doorway. "Get everything we need." He glances up, brown eyes wary. "Shut the door."

It was his choice, not the island's, not Jacob's, to save Ben after he had been shot. Richard knows which people are chosen, which people are good, and follows that instinct always, even if it sometimes requires extraordinary, or questionable, tactics. Widmore never quite understood, and fought him at every turn. Ellie could not see his vision clearly but left him to it. Prior leaders reacted in all manner of ways: some attempting to control him, others trusting him to act as he saw fit. Those holding the latter opinion tended to last longer, though in Richard's view, outside opinions were always irrelevant. He has lived to bury or dismiss twenty predecessors, and those are only the names he remembers, those he supported. Richard is not the island, as some think, nor a personification of some elemental force, but he is more in tune with it than anything else that walks or breathes or speaks. It has already passed his judgement, a sentence he carries with every silent footfall. It finds a way of laying down consequences no inanimate thing ought, but when he wants to - when he really wants to - Richard can break the rules anyway.

He thinks of the shadows of the overgrown Temple wall, thick with vines, and the place beyond it where he laid Ben down and let the smoke rise. He cannot do that for Alex. They are too far away. His mind roves with possibilities of what he _can_ do. There is something, though he hardly knows if he dares, for a myriad of reasons. If he does, the smoke - the thing that has scoured the soul of ancient minor gods and to which the island's first people built the Temple - will not be the only thing that judges him badly for it. Richard splays his fingers across Alex's folded hands and he closes his eyes as he presses a kiss to Alex's forehead, wondering what the punishment will be this time.

__________________


	13. xiii

xiii

"Do it," Richard tells Juliet several hours later, walking out into the main room after Tom returns with the medical supplies.

She looks up at him, the condescending, superior look she has adopted, the unfazed expression learned from Ben. Juliet meek and mild, the good sister, the obedient wife, the gentle friend, has evaporated, replaced by firm control and chilling calm. "Do what, Richard?"

His brown eyes are penetrating as he sombrely looks her over, not amused by this change, nor accustomed to being questioned by her. "Run the transfusion, Juliet."

Juliet sighs and leans back slightly in her chair. This is more than she bargained for when Tom called and said something about Alex not feeling well. _It's all more than I bargained for_, she thinks bitterly, rubbing her temples. Ben, the Island, the job that turned out not to be the brief and lucrative scientific expedition she expected, but a three year sentence of virtual imprisonment - _I do not want_, she thinks angrily. She is always angry now, unless she is in love, losing her temper and transforming it into passion, burning away in some man's arms. It was better with Goodwin, who swept her off her feet, fed her chocolate and strawberries in bed, cradled her warm body against him. It was good with Jack, caught up in the panic of the moment, frightened and desperate and too involved in her game to dwell on her frustrations. It was something else with Ben, burning up like a firecracker, smouldering with fury and want as he held her down, his lips exploring her body, ever the sheen of ownership. Fear had been there, of course, cancelling out the rage. But now, she is alone, and the anger builds, the complete infuriated resistance to her situation escalates, until sometimes, she feels completely out of control, no longer the competent doctor they know her as, but a vengeful thing, unable to think of anything but how her life was stolen from her, how it vanished the moment she met Richard Alpert and drank his drugged juice and fell into Ethan's arms.

Even being permitted to return to the mainland did not assuage her anger. She had been excited, of course, and grateful, even bubbly. But it had not worked, and she had realized, later, Ben had known it would not. Rachel was different, distant, at the first meeting, after the bright smiles and clinging hugs. She does not understand why Juliet cannot speak of the places she has been, and does not believe any of Juliet's half-hearted lies. Juliet can understand, almost. She knows Rachel searched Portland, worked with police departments. She hung posters when her sister disappeared. The frantic fear over her sister's absence receded for Rachel when Juliet showed up at her door one morning, twenty pounds lighter than when she left, her hair unkempt, clothes wrinkled from jet travel, unable to offer much by way of explanation. They grew apart almost instantly. In the interim, Rachel has come to expect Juliet just ran out on her responsibilities, that she panicked and fled after Edmund's suspicious death and never looked back. Juliet, who cannot tell her the truth, does not bother to lie, and Rachel has treated her poorly for it ever since the tearful, confusing reunion. Rachel keeps Julian away from her. She herself stays away as well. Juliet grows closer to the breaking point, moves closer towards becoming the thing Ben has designed her to be: coolly emotionless, concerned with the needs of the island more than herself; one of his people, resigned to following his instructions.

Annoyed, Juliet bites her bottom lip to stop herself from spilling out the truth to Richard, who, she decides, will never understand. She did not ask to come here, dealing with impossible situations, surrounded by war and bloodshed. She does not want to be here to give Richard the news that she can do nothing more. She has given enough, and wants nothing more than to let go. The free-fall she's been standing on the brink of for months draws ever nearer, and it seems, from her overworked perspective, that one less attachment, one less familiar face, can hardly be a bad thing at this stage.

"The situation is not what I anticipated, Richard. I've gone over Alex's vitals; she's waning. I don't think her body will accept the transfusion at this stage. She's rejecting the medications I've been giving her, her body is beginning to shut down. There is a strong possibility her body will reject the transfusion as well."

He nods, calmly dismissing this. His dark eyes, so certain, are infuriating as Juliet meets them. "Run it anyway."

"It'll hurt her, Richard. At this stage, the most we can ask for is to keep her comfortable, to let her rest." Juliet rises from her chair, shaking her head. "We don't have a universal donor. Tom wasn't able to get any; blood banks in the city are low, they aren't getting the donors they need. Nothing gets in or out without passing a dozen checkpoints."

Richard rolls up his sleeve, preparing to answer, but before he can speak, Tom leaps to his feet.

"No," Tom says, shaking his head. He looks at Richard warily, not used to quarrelling with his own. "Ben would never allow it."

"Ben isn't here," Richard points out starkly. "Juliet, do you know how to run the line or don't you? You have managed to get the necessary supplies, haven't you?" Richard asks pointedly. He raises his eyebrow, his eyes meeting Juliet's "If Alex doesn't get the transfusion, will she recover?"

Juliet shrugs, gritting her teeth. _I'm not an emergency room doctor_, she thinks grimly, actually wishing for Jack, who would take charge, not afraid of desperate situations. Somewhere deep inside Juliet is steel, but there is weakness too, the last vestiges of the woman she once was under her husband's control, the meek and timid mouse. _I can't make these decisions myself!_ "I - I don't know, but I don't think so. I haven't dealt with this condition before, specifically. I only know what I was taught in med school, I haven't worked with it directly. I'm not an expert, Richard." Drawing a deep breath, Juliet calms herself, regaining control. "I'm not sure what will happen. Sometimes people pull through."

"And sometimes not," Richard finishes, holding out his arm expectantly. When Juliet nods gravely, he looks at her, eyebrows raised. "Then let's do this."

_____________

It is lonesome, being forever. Of course, Richard has not always existed, thought it often seems that way to those who meet him. He remembers, sometimes, happenings of a century ago, or the words he spoke to a person dead for generations. Thoughts, long and intentionally suppressed, come to him sometimes at night, delivering hazy images that never hesitate before fading once more, creating echoes of long-lost sound. The sound of bells, summoning church-goers out into a bleak and stormy morning. The slosh of his body, draped with sodden cloth, dragging himself up to the beach, out of the violent water. A kindly, noble face finding his after an eternity of sleep. Jacob's features cast in firelight and shadow.

The smell of rubbing alcohol drifts through the air for a moment as Juliet rips open an antiseptic cleansing pad. Cautiously, as though she is afraid to touch him, she dabs it across the crook of Richard's arm, then opens another, cleansing his skin further down his forearm. Trying to focus on the normalcy of the motion - she has taken blood hundreds of times - Juliet pushes aside the thought of what she is preparing to do. She is still not entirely certain why Tom slammed out of the hotel a few moments earlier, after reluctantly helping her set up the equipment, and she does not understand the issue behind Tom's warning of Ben's disapproval. _If there is any chance of helping Alex, he'd want me to take it, wouldn't he?_ she considers questioningly as she tosses the towels aside. Her mind whirls with thoughts of disease and antiquity, humming over the notion of Persia and Babylon.

"This might feel a little cold," Juliet speaks perfunctorily, spreading iodine down the bend of Richard's elbow. He does not flinch, as she had known he would not. "Sorry," she says anyway, the way she spoke to her last patients, the pregnant women who came to her for help delivering healthy babies, and the sick or hurt among the Others, whom she diligently patched. She tries not to remind herself, eyes focussed on the unmarked skin of Richard's arm, that she was seldom able to restore them to health. The pregnant women died, their unborn children never knowing the light of day. Colleen died, her shirt thick and soaked with her own blood.

Richard says nothing, glancing away from her, his mind elsewhere. He remembers the horrible slow pace at which he dragged himself up out of the sea, laden with sodden clothes and his own ordinary exhaustion, something he can no longer precisely recall feeling. The way his fingers clawed the damp sand, the way his lungs coped with the fresh influx of air - these are details he cannot remember, at least consciously, but he does remember Jacob's face, the same face he has seen repeatedly since. _I have a job for you_, he remembers Jacob saying, though English had not been the mode of exchange then, and he would not have understood a word of it at the time, had someone spoken to him with it. _Something I cannot trust to anyone else_. Memories rush over Richard: himself, lying breathlessly and broken near the fire in a shadowy, cavernous room, trying to speak and tell this man he is close to death; Jacob crouching down close to him, a shade of a smile on his face. _I need you to get up. Can you do that for me, Richardus?_

Juliet rakes her hair back into a ponytail, then squeezes a liberal amount of hand sanitizer on. She glares around the hotel room, thinking disdainfully of the lack of sterility in this place. Even the island would be preferable. _At least there we have an operating theatre, someplace sanitary for this kind of procedure_. "This is an unusual situation, I know, but since we don't have adequate facilities, I don't dare store your blood for any length of time. We're risking infection as it is, doing this here. You're sure?" she adds, looking at him hopefully, beseeching him to change his mind. "Absolutely sure? Because Richard, we can stop this at any time, just tell me -" She falls silent at the look he gives her. "Fine. I'm going to do a direct transfusion. That's normally not recommended, but I just don't see any other way."

She busies herself assembling the venous cannula, then uncoiling the length of tubing Tom brought for her. "Sit down on the bed," she instructs Richard briskly. "I don't have as much tubing I'd like, so once you're hooked up, you're going to have to stay pretty still."

Richard nods, glancing down at Alex. He can feel the heat radiating off her even before he reaches for her, taking her hands in one of his. Visions of Jacob surface, visions from decades after their first meeting. He sees himself, shouting, and Jacob studying his anger passively, nearly amused by his fury. _You made me a promise, Richard, a promise that you would do what I asked you, that you would help guide our people and protect this island. I promised you life in return, and you took my offer gladly, so why are you complaining? _He shifts, grits his teeth, and thinks of the encounter that will someday be due. Someday, unavoidably, he will have to give an explanation for his behaviour. Jacob, he knows, will wait.

Juliet crosses the room, collecting the small device Tom had brought earlier. It is not precisely the up to date CFC aphaeresis machine she was hoping for. Rather, it looks like a World War I relic: a clunky, heavy device with a hand crank in addition to the frayed, fabric-wrapped cord and plug. She studies it doubtfully, the resilience she learned under Ben's command dissipating, replaced with perfunctory pessimism. Wondering where Tom could possibly have attained it from, she shakes her head, then attaches the tubing, mentally petitioning heaven for assistance.

A few moments later, she is ready. Cleansing her hands, she pulls on a pair of fresh latex gloves. Inserting the needle into Richard's arm is simple; he shows no reaction except to look away, even as the wide-bore needle slides into his artery. Alex, however, makes Juliet nervous. She half-expects Alex to wake up and jerk away at the first touch, but contrary to her expectation, the sharp goes easily into the vein. Securing it in place with clear tape, Juliet switches on the machine. To her amazement, it whirls to life, exactly as Tom said it would.

"Now," Juliet says, sitting down in a chair a little ways away from the bed, where Richard is reclined against the headboard, studying the tube in his arm. He lifts his head and looks at her, slightly forgiving, questioning. Juliet sighs. "We wait."

_______________

Deep within slumber, Alex stirs. She has been dreaming for hours - or has it been days, weeks, months, even years? Time, for once, means nothing to her. She cannot hear the ticking of minutes, and the old familiar panic she has intermittently felt throughout her life - that her life is slipping through her fingers and needs to be lived free of Ben's control before it is over- is gone. Instead of the usual struggling to rein in her impatience, she feels completely calm. The drowsy, heavy feeling of days ago is absent as well. She has no desire to fight her exhaustion, but welcomes sleep with open arms.

Dimly, visions come to her. Perhaps they are memories, but more likely pure imagination, because even unconscious, she knows she has not endured the experiences she sees. Wars, but nothing like the battles she sometimes read about from the books on Ben's bookshelves, or the films about modern wars she has seen on television since leaving the island. Instead of tanks and automatic weapons, she sees an army marching on foot toting spears, and watches as archers draw back taut bow strings to fire arrows into a scorching sky. Heavy skies, silver and bronze with heat and storms, drift above her, faster than anything she has seen before. She watches clouds drift on currents of air, as dawn, noon, twilight, darkness twirls quick and endless overhead. The air, when she attempts to breathe, feels cooler and fresher in her lungs that anything she has experienced; it feels almost young, almost new.

The scene that plays out before her closed eyes twists, and she feels the sickening sway of a ship tossed by unruly seas. Old boards quake beneath her feet as she is pitched forward and backward, hands scraped raw from clinging to the rope. A ship with a rising, carved bow, too small a craft to take out on the open ocean, or so it seems from her perspective. She sees faces of people she has never known, hears them speaking to her in languages she has never learned, yet she understands them all, even feels a rush of camaraderie, as though they were old friends and companions.

Then the dreams change again, showing her the innards of the Temple she has known of all her life but never seen. Although she has never set foot inside, in the vision Alex walks easily down the path to the door hidden in the outer wall, then steps smoothly inside, down to the place where the smoke lingers, its serpentine coiling and electric crackle somehow familiar to her, though she has only ever known the smoke from the distance, and feared it. She trails her fingers over the carvings, studying the hieroglyphics, waiting, though she does not know for what. Finally, she hears the footsteps she expected, and turns to encounter her pursuer, but then, before she can make out his face, she surfaces, and the dreams slide out of her mind.

For a moment, her body feels numb, not like her body at all but rather something corporeal she temporarily inhabits. Experimentally, she flexes her fingers, feels the brush of another's touch across her open palm. The motion startles her. It is like learning how to operate new machinery, like the first time she sat in the driver's seat of one of the old Dharma vans and Ben passed her the keys. She can feel pain. It circles through her body, travelling with her blood, but for a few seconds the disconnect is so intense and pervasive that she does not internalize the pain, just observes it dispassionately. _My arm hurts_, she thinks calmly. _Everything hurts. _And that is all it takes. Abruptly, it is not the separate body that aches, but her, herself. The distance vanishes, and she wakes with a start.

"Easy, Alex," speaks a voice above her. Alex opens her eyes to the blurry image of blonde hair. Her mind supplies the rest. _Juliet_. "It's all right," Juliet says. "It's almost over. I want you to lie still and try to relax."

Alex closes her eyes again, not appreciating the stinging sensation of the bright light shining down on her. Brightness cuts like a knife, creating a sudden headache, but even with her eyes closed, a reddish glow pervades. "Too bright," she speaks. Her voice emerges a gentle whisper, but the light goes out anyway, restoring the room to shadows. Suddenly, she remembers the figure in the Temple. "Where is he?"

"Who?" Juliet asks, confused. Unseen by Alex, she turns automatically towards Richard, one eyebrow raised.

"I don't know his name. I dreamed about him," Alex says. She opens her eyes, narrowing them cautiously almost instantly. Some of her focus is restored, but things still seem blurry around the edges. She can feel her body struggling to breathe, and the effort to draw oxygen into her lungs is exhausting. It feels like a stone is resting on her chest, prohibiting anything but the shallowest inhalations. Tiredness washes over her. "In the Temple..."

Above her, Richard and Juliet exchange a glance. It only lasts a few seconds, and Richard is the one to break it off, turning away and staring at the wall opposite. Unconsciously, he covers the bruise on his arm, which is already fading. Concern thrums through him, accompanied by anticipation.

"What happened in this dream?" Richard questions flatly, not looking at Alex. He is aware of Juliet staring at him, her keen mind adding together Tom's protest with the strange things Alex is saying. She has had experience with the fever wrought delusions that sometimes accompany bad infections or savage illnesses, but Alex's skin, though still warm, no longer burns as hot as before. He wonders uneasily how long it will take for her to become suspicious enough to badger Tom into explaining.

"I - I don't remember," comes Alex's answer, barely audible. "I think I saw Jacob," she adds, right before she returns to sleep, unable to fight against her body's need for recovery. Closing her eyes, she does not see Juliet rumple her brow in puzzlement, nor does she notice as Richard rises swiftly from the bed and walks out, shutting the door behind him, his face still slightly pale. For a few seconds, she is aware of strange blood coursing through her veins, whispering secrets, giving her the answers to questions she has never thought to ask. Then she is aware of nothing at all.


	14. xiv

"Richard!"

Juliet's voice, at once mystified and accusing, brings Richard to a halt. He pauses in the street, steeling himself for the questions that he knows will come. Of all their people, Juliet is the only one whose grudge against him is valid. He had lied to her during the recruiting process, something she has never forgiven. Everything he told her, from their destination to his true identity, had been a lie. There was no Mittelos Bioscience in existence, and though he had posed as a head-hunter, it had been a front. He had appealed to her emotional needs, promising opportunities to cure infertility, knowing that her sister's unexpected, almost miraculous pregnancy would be all the convincing Juliet needed. The promises that he made, claiming the assignment would be a short one full of opportunities for the kind of joyous research that was her specialty, had been broken. She has never forgiven him.

"Where do you think you're going?" Juliet cries out now as she hastens to catch up with him. The wind catches her hair and whips it back from her face. Up close, the exhaustion and stress of the past few days is visible on her face. Juliet's complexion is poor, more pale than usual, her eyes shadowed with deep purplish crescents. Tension ripples across her shoulders and aching back, makes her grind her teeth as she furrows her brow, perplexed. "What happened up there?" she asks, ignoring the fact that they are not alone. "Did you hear her mention Jacob?"

Though he has lied to her frequently in the past, Richard does not lie now. "I heard," he acknowledges, watching Juliet warily. He gestures back towards the hotel. "Shouldn't you be inside, with Alex?"

"Tom's with her," Juliet answers, her voice dropping a notch. "He's not happy," she continues, nudging Richard's elbow. Together, they move slowly down the street, seeking a place for better privacy. "Why didn't he want me to do the procedure, Richard? He was against the blood transfusion from the start." She feels a thin veneer of panic that makes her jittery and quickens her heart, and in spite of her confidence with her efforts to help Alex, she suddenly wishes she would have taken time to ask these questions earlier. "He said Ben wouldn't like it. Why not?"

Richard lifts his head, looking away from Juliet. "I suggest you ask Tom."

"I'm asking you," Juliet retorts. For a moment, she looks angry, hands on her hips, her eyes expectant. The next moment she relaxes, shrugs her shoulders and tries on a tired smile. There is work to be done, and it is easier to function as a team than as an independent. "Look, it's been a long day. We're all tired. Alex seems to be sound asleep. Why don't we discuss this after we've all had some rest." A part of her knows, now, that for Richard it will be fight or flight. Although she does not understand the cause of his edginess, or the reason for the culpability shining back at her in his irises, she has grown skilled in anticipating the responses in others. For all his steadiness, the fact that he has always been there, at least so far as she understands, at the moment Richard seems completely unreliable, like someone young and scared and way over his head. "Come on," she urges, her fingers brushing his wrist. "She'll want to see you when she wakes up."

"Because it was me," Richard speaks. For a moment Juliet does not understand, so Richard clarifies. "The reason why Tom didn't want you to do the transfusion, because it was my blood."

"If it helps Alex," Juliet starts to point out, but before she can add "what's the harm?", Richard interrupts her.

"It might," Richard agrees, nodding as though to convince himself. "The chances that it will heal her are excellent, in fact." The words he speaks do not sound hopeful, however, and Juliet frowns back at him, expectant and confused. "You heard her when she talked about Jacob," he says, as though that's any kind of an explanation.

Juliet nods, bemused. "Yes, I heard her. She was dreaming. Hallucinations are common for people experiencing high fevers or severe illnesses, Richard. Some people report seeing vivid images, imagining all kinds of visions or even hearing sounds that seem real to them. It's nothing to be concerned about. When the fever breaks, she probably won't even remember anything about it." Juliet shelves her own suspicions and worries. Ignoring the suspicious and questionable has always come easy to her, one more reason she was selected over a handful of other excellent candidates.

"She mentioned the Temple." Richard shakes his head and stares at the ground, trying to make sense of the unexpected. It is not easy to shock him, given his long life and the myriad of unusual things he has witnessed or participated in, but Alex's vision is enough to send dread spiralling through him. He can feel sharp eyes of judgement watching him from very far away, and imagines Jacob shaking his head in disappointment. The magic, for lack of a better word, that keeps him alive and unchanged is too rare and spectacular a gift to be shared. In all his life he has never met another person like himself, even with all the uncommon miracles he has watched on the island. _Did you really think I wouldn't know? _speaks Jacob from Richard's subconscious. Whether it is really Jacob or merely Richard's own imagination makes little difference. His body is Jacob's, owed for long unpaid favours, and rules are rules. _Have you any idea what you've done? _comes Jacob's voice again, and this time, it is not Richard's imaginings. _I trust you remember what it cost you._

Abruptly, Richard pushes past Juliet, but after taking two steps, he is at a loss. He can go back to the hotel, be there when Alex wakes to comfort her and support her as she regains her health, which she will, he is certain of it. There will be explaining to do, for Juliet, who waits, watching him critically like one studies a mad-person, and definitely for Alex. Richard is not a man familiar with cowardice, nor does he shy away from difficult situations or confrontations, but he wonders as he stands there whether he has the mettle to tell Alex exactly what is coming for her.

"Go back," he instructs Juliet. When she balks, he narrows his eyes at her, urging compliance. "Go," he says again. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

"I'll call Ben," Juliet agrees with a forced smile. "He'll be glad to know Alex seems to be doing better."

"You do that," Richard says dismissively. He turns his back on her, striding away, and does not look back. With each step, he calls out silently to Jacob. _Don't_, he urges, imagining Jacob with his abacus, adding up sins and misdemeanours. _I couldn't just let her die. She's our leader's daughter. If Ben lost her, he would lose his capacity to lead._

"That's not why you did it," Jacob counters, thousands of miles away, standing in his dwelling beneath the ruins of the statue. His hands pause in their work and he abandons the loom, rising up and going out towards the water, preferring to look at the ocean. He thinks of the crashes the island has sustained, the shipwrecks and downed planes, flickers of here-and-there time, buildings constructed and razed. "Admit it, Richard," he adds, barefoot on the sand, letting the white foam of the ocean wash over his ankles. There is no harshness in his tone, nor scolding. He sounds politely interested, but Jacob is deceptive. "You want her too much."

_That__'s not her fault_, Richard thinks sombrely as he walks swiftly down the street. He ignores the few people he passes by, walking without seeing past shops and pubs and restaurants. _Don't make her suffer for it._

Hair tousled by the breeze, Jacob flashes a rare smile, though his eyes, old and sad, scan the horizon unblinkingly. "What makes you think I intend for her to suffer?" He considers the memories Richard has inadvertently passed on, experiences that made such an impression they seemed to have tainted his very blood. He thinks of Alex staring up at the Temple wall, then turning towards him, surprised and unafraid and how she seemed, for all her tumultuous nature, peaceful. _Richard needn't know_, he decides. There is too much work to be done, and he is tired of the cat and mouse games being played with the island. "I have a job for you," he speaks aloud to the wind, and somehow Richard hears him on the streets in Ontario. "I can trust you, Richard, can't I?"

_____________________________

Mikhail Bakunin strides smoothly across the airport, barely a trace of his old limp detectable in his careful movements. If he feels exposed or uncomfortable in the second-hand suit he wears, or the expensive sunglasses with dark lenses, he does not betray those emotions. He spares a glance for some of the passengers milling about the main terminal, laden with luggage and minor troubles. Most of them mumble about delays or lost boarding passes, or find fault with a non-functioning wheel on their bags. Mikhail has no such concerns. He carries nothing except a small black knapsack, barely large enough to hold travel money and a few forged documents. There is nothing else to weigh him down, and for that he is thankful.

He spots his target easily enough, even in the crowd. There is some noise, most of it coming from several small children who totter on the plastic chairs and laugh loudly at one another's antics, but when he comes up behind Richard, he has only to speak a single word, and Richard rises. They do not exchange any greetings, not even a glance. Mikhail stops in the restroom, then goes to the VIP lounge, where he is admitted without difficulty. Richard lingers at a coffee bar, pretending to read the menu. After a few minutes, he orders French roast and meanders through the crowd, glancing out the large windows at the aeroplanes outside being prepped for take-off. Finally, he finishes the last of the coffee, crumples the paper cup and strides into the restroom. A few moments later he emerges, and the black knapsack on his shoulder looks no different from before.

"Easy enough drop," Mikhail laughs on the other end of the cell phone an hour later, as Richard steers his rented car down a street that is nearly empty. "I would have brought it to your hotel, but word is you haven't checked in for nearly two weeks. Besides, the place is being monitored, of that I am certain." He pauses, and the silence sounds licentious. "Is there something going on that you've chosen not to tell me about?"

"If I was keeping secrets from you, what makes you think I'd disclose them now?" Richard replies easily, resting his wrist on the steering wheel. It never gets old, driving automobiles, as much practice as he's had. This particular model coasts down the road without the slightest rustle, the suspension immaculate. Returning to business, he clears his throat. "I have the map. You're absolutely certain about this location?"

Mikhail chuckles smugly. "Of course, of course. I've double checked the information. It's been verified by all of our sources. He will be exactly where I directed you to go. I heard the information from the very mouth of an associate." Reclining back in his chair at his temporary office, he kicks up his feet and balances them on the table-top and removes the dark glasses, toying with them for a moment before casting them aside. He feels almost naked without the old eye-patch, so he puts it on, though he is alone and the sight of his ruined eye will not offend. "And remember, it was a request. He said he would speak to you alone, but we are not in a position of taking orders from this man. If you would prefer to have some company, I could meet you there in twenty minutes."

Shaking his head, Richard pulls off to the side of the street and parks the car. He will walk the rest of the way alone; if Widmore truly did request a face-to-face meeting, he will be watching diligently for cars and monitoring the license plates, scouring them for clues that give them away as rentals. "I've got it covered, Mikhail," he says, shaking his head.

"Good. And you have the wire?"

"Of course." As he speaks, Richard affixes the small device to his clothing, not bothering to be discreet. Widmore, if he is still half as sharp as the young man Richard trained, will expect the conversation to be monitored.

"So, now, the news I am hearing," Mikhail continues, his voice taking on a slightly hesitant quality. In the privacy of his own area, he licks his lips nervously. "I spoke to Tom earlier today. Alex has made a full recovery." He waits a moment for some response, but aside from a quickening in Richard's breath, there is no reply. "She's awake, very healthy, feels well. Juliet has continued to monitor her progress, all the reports are very positive." As silence persists from the other end, Mikhail frowns. "That's good, no?"

"Yes," Richard agrees. His voice sounds slightly husky but he makes no allusion to it.

Nodding, Mikhail leans over his computer, idly punching in the codes that will be necessary to monitor and record the frequency of Richard's device. "I was thinking, perhaps, if this meeting of yours goes well, I will pay them a visit and deliver the information we have acquired personally. I haven't seen Alex since the two of you were with me in Saint Petersburg." He waits a moment, but Richard does not reply. "It is good she is well again. She's like Ben, strong. She can be very useful for us, when she wants to be."

Richard drums his fingers against the steering column, staring ahead blankly at the lit dashboard. Frustrated, he twists the key and dims the lights. "Did Tom say -" he starts, but then stops, unwilling to answer the question. "You'll be sending the information to Ben as well?" he confirms.

"Yes, that's right. He will need to make the final decision." Mikhail frowns. "You've not been back to the hotel. Where are you staying, Richard?"

Instead of answering, Richard leans back against his seat, feeling weary. The bruise on his arm is completely healed, but he touches the place where the transfusion needle went in anyway, like a sort of talisman. "Outside of the city limits," he informs Mikhail after a few minutes. "I've taken the usual precautions. They haven't found my location."

The question hovers on the tip of Mikhail's tongue, but he does not have the courage to ask it. He is not simply afraid of Richard's anger at the violation of privacy, though he understands the other man will take offence. Rather, he does not want to have to deal with any emotions beside the anger, and fears they will arise. "She's asked about you," he says instead, dropping the truth like a bomb. He can almost feel the impact it has on Richard, though the other man does not comment. "According to Tom, when I spoke to him, she has been asking questions about your whereabouts. Alex," he adds, in case there was any question. "And they've all asked if I have spoken to you or know where you are." Leaden, he continues. "They are not happy, especially Juliet. Do you want me to tell -"

"Tell them I have business to take care of," Richard interrupts. He cradles the phone between his jaw and shoulder as he withdraws the gun from his pocket and loads it. It gleams darkly, a weighty piece of metal. "If they have questions, they should consult Ben."

"I don't believe there are any difficulties in carrying out the operations," Mikhail says. He is not famed for his tact. "The question seems to be more personal. Alex," he adds, with finality. "Perhaps you should -"

"I need to get to work," Richard announces coldly. "I'll contact you when I'm finished," he adds before clicking the cell phone shut, ending the connection. Tossing the phone aside, he leans back, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The vision flits through his mind of Alex's warm mouth seeking him out, the sweet taste of her skin beneath his lips. Opening his eyes, Richard stares out through the windscreen of the car. The view is dark and bleak, the air surprisingly cold for the season.

Pocketing the gun, Richard gets out of the car and slams the door with unwonted force. He strides evenly through the grim alley, unafraid of its inhabitants or the darkness. Contrary to his absolute silence when moving through the jungle, his freshly polished shoes click against the cobblestones as he walks towards his destination. There is little light. The moon is mostly blotted out by clouds, the sky deep blue and the clouds themselves silvery. He glances upwards, sighs, and keeps moving.

_It's not her fault_, he thinks to whatever neutral gods may be listening. He is certain that Jacob can hear him, despite their physical distance, but Jacob is neither a god nor neutral; he has more invested in the island's protection than any of them, including even Richard. _Whatever she saw - _but he cannot allow himself to think about that_. It was a dream_, Richard tells himself firmly, giving himself a sound shake like a child that has received a bad scare. _She was barely conscious. She'd been sick._ _She'd heard us talking_. None of the excuses add up. _Why would she say his name unless - ?_

Forcing himself to abandon that unfruitful line of questioning, Richard turns at the corner. The street is slightly more populated here: a couple, both members intoxicated, cling to each other, kissing against a lamp post. The sight of them makes something stir in Richard, both arousal and fantastic guilt. He tries not to think of Alex, smiling coyly up at him, lying barefoot and half-dressed across his bed. _I left_, he thinks, directing the thought at Jacob. _Isn't that enough of a sacrifice? So leave her alone. _Somewhere in the great distance between himself and the island, Jacob laughs mirthfully at his ignorance.

There are guards just beyond the entranceway to the building Mikhail directed him to. Richard had expected that. He draws up level with them, glancing first at them and then at several passer-by who walk past sedately, in no way comprehending the danger they are in, surrounded by armed men. One of the guards nods and Richard tugs up his shirt, exposing a flash of skin and the poorly concealed gun. He withdraws it and another from his pocket and hands them over, one eyebrow cocked at the formalities.

"So, you're Ricardus?" one of the guards asks, once Richard's weapon supply has been depleted. He does not act impressed.

"It's Richard, actually," he replies. "Richard Alpert."

The guard offers an unfriendly smile. "Yeah, he said you'd say that." He nods to his companion, who smirks back, less comfortable. "So, boss said he used to know you, back on the island. That's all he wants to talk about lately, you and that island. How'd you meet him?"

"I trained him," Richard answers truthfully. "For a leadership position."

"Yeah? How'd that work out?"

Richard raises an eyebrow, his expression impassive. "It didn't. Can I go up now?"

Surly, the guard frowns at him. "Sure, you do that. Fifteenth floor, elevator's at the end of the hall. We got cameras. Don't try anything."

The building is less ornate and much more shabby than Richard expected, and he finds himself feeling almost disappointed as he slowly ascends in the rickety old elevator, which moans and groans at its burden as it hauls him upwards at a snail's pace. Through the grating, he catches a glimpse of more than a dozen similar hallways, each with peeling paint and rugs in need of a firm beating. There is no movement on any floor, and no shadows visible in the almost blinding florescent glow of the lights. Cameras face him at each interval, cleverly disguised as smoke detectors. Richard stares blankly back at them, memorizing his surroundings. Finally, the elevator halts with a screech on the fifteenth floor, and Richard steps out to face a concrete door.

"Hello Richard," Charles Widmore speaks a few minutes later. He nods to his assistant, a slim man in a non-descript suit, who sets out a tray with two glasses and a bottle, then bows himself from the room, though taking care to close the door. Looking affectionately at the MacCutcheon, Widmore pours a steep measure into one glass, and adds a splash to the second. He takes the lesser amount for himself, leaving the other for Richard, who ignores the gesture.

"Never did care much for my kind of pleasures, did you?" Charles observes as he inhales the heady scent of his drink. Nonetheless, with a teasing smile, he holds up his glass in a mock cheer before tasting a sip. The alcohol burns his mouth and makes his eyes sting, but it is an old and familiar comfort, and the heat in his stomach instantly soothes his frayed nerves. "Can I have them bring you something else, perhaps? Tea, coffee, brandy -"

"You asked me here, presumably to discuss our current situation," Richard interrupts. He frowns slightly to himself as he examines Charles. It has not been so long since the last time the two men were face to face, but a significant amount of time has passed since Richard truly got a good look at the former leader. He takes in the wary, displeased face and darting eyes, finding the same caution he was once familiar with accompanied by mistrust and pessimism. Widmore's hair, what little remains, is almost exclusively white now instead of the fine deep brown Richard remembers. In contrast to the energetic youth who rode horses, hiked for days and rarely displayed any exhaustion, Widmore now looks tired, beaten and afraid. "I assumed you wanted to come to some kind of agreement."

Charles sets down his glass irritably and pours himself another drink. "It's so easy for you, isn't it, Richard? Time takes absolutely no toll. Look at you," he adds, draining the amber liquid from his glass. "It's amazing. There's no change. Do you realize that you look exactly the same right now, today, as you did when I first met you as a child? 1930, and you stood before me just like you do now. My God," he continues, pursing his lips as he toys with the ice cubes in his glass. "What does it feel like, to never grow old?"

"You brought me here to question me about my experiences?" Richard asks, raising a critical eyebrow. "You laid a siege against the island. You sent people, innocent people, to capture Ben and do God knows what -"

"Oh, God knows," Charles interrupts with a mirthless laugh. "Does he, now? Well, you'd be the judge of that." His eyes become serious. "How's Jacob these days, Richard? Does he still only talk to us through you? Does he still send messages on those scraps of paper, or has everything changed?" When Richard does not answer, he twists his lips bitterly. "Have you taken Benjamin Linus to him? Well, have you?"

Richard shakes his head. "No."

Surprised, Charles widens his eyes. "No?"

"Jacob decides who he will interact with and who he won't," Richard explains. He thinks of Alex, speaking Jacob's name full of wonder, and forces the thought out of his conscious mind before the questions can circulate again, unanswerable. "He hasn't asked to see Ben, despite numerous requests, just like he never agreed to speak to you -"

"You've told him about that? Benjamin?"

"No," Richard responds, shaking his head. He watches as Widmore's shoulders hunch and sink with relief. "I saw no need to contradict what you told them, the illusion you maintained. You destroyed your own credentials when you broke the rules. That is all they need to know."

Widmore makes an amused sound in his throat, though his expression is anything but contented. He tips the bottle of MacCutcheon, pouring himself some more, and this time fills the glass to the brim. He adds no ice. Taking a swallow, he winces against the burn. "The rules," he speaks dismissively. "Haven't you ever wanted something, Richard? Isn't there something you would do anything to possess? Yes, I broke the rules," he continues, placing sarcastic emphasis on the word. "I was a young, strapping man trapped in a loveless marriage, who knew nothing of life beyond our shores. So I left the island, yes, on Jacob's request I did, and when I was out there, I happened to fall in love. It was completely unintentional, but technically, voluntary. Perhaps I can be faulted for thinking only of myself at that moment, not Eloise, or Daniel, or the island, that damned island -" He shakes himself slightly, afraid he has given too much away, and takes another sip of his drink, savouring the alcohol's flavour. "My whole life was given in service to that island, and then, after one mistake, I was cast aside. Answer me this, Richard: was it fair?"

"Fair has nothing to do with it. Rules are rules."

Waving his hand dismissively, Widmore nods. "So you're still loyal to Benjamin, and, presumably, to Jacob as well. And you still think what happened to me was right. But I'm not the only one who has broken rules back home, am I, Richard?" His grim smile is a tad too knowing for comfort. "The girl, the one he stole from the Frenchwoman - I take it she's off-limits, if one were to ask Benjamin."

Richard frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"I saw you, when we tried to take her. Don't try to hide it from me. Perhaps your associates haven't figured it out yet, but I know you better than they do." Charles holds out the untouched glass of MacCutcheon expectantly, and to his surprise, Richard takes it. "You were afraid for her, there was some personal connection, some kind of feelings invested. Does Benjamin know about this development?"

"Ben's our leader," Richard says, and he manages to perfectly disguise the tremble in his voice. His brown eyes do not look away or even blink as he stares soullessly back at Widmore. "He gave me an order, one I've tried my best to follow." Despite his assurances and his even tone, he senses that Charles understands his vulnerability. The other man, who he remembers as a small boy, looks back with narrowed eyes, surprised by the revelation. "You tried to capture Alex. It was my responsibility to ensure nothing happened to threaten her safety." Before Widmore can pry any further, Richard looks at him intently. "You sent word to Mikhail that I was to meet you here. Why?"

With a grim partial smile, Charles consults the scotch in his glass. "It was easy, wasn't it? Sending one leader away, raising up the next. You never listened to me, though you called me leader, even when I demanded that you not take one of them into our camp. If you had believed in me, perhaps none of us would be in this mess." His eyes are flinty, angry. "Whether you choose to admit it or not, Richard, I know you're already making preparations for the disposal of your current leader. Benjamin Linus's destiny is not to continue as a leader of our people. You know this, of course you do. Jacob has undoubtedly already informed you of his intentions. Will it be so simple, though, for you to carry out his wishes this time?" Leaning forward, he glares. "Can you be so stoic when the time comes to march Benjamin into a submarine, to see him standing there before you, bereft, shackled in handcuffs, devoid of his life's purpose? You were always partial to him over me, just as you preferred Eloise's guidance. Yet, you saw her disposed of, cast away. Will you be able to turn on Ben as well?"

"You're talking about John Locke," Richard announces. "What do you know about John? Have you been in contact with him?"

"You haven't answered my question," Charles points out.

Shaking his head, Richard looks evenly back at the other man. "No. No, it won't be easy." He thinks, fleetingly, of the too-clever boy standing boldly in the jungle, asking Richard to take him away. A pang goes through his chest, though he is used to this, having done it before. "Replacements never are." He knows, with surety, that Ben will never go out the way Charles did. He will not consent to imprisonment or stand with his chin stuck high in the air, defying humiliation. Ben was not born on the island the way Charles was, but in spite of that, it is more his home than it ever was Widmore's. "My hope is that Ben can remain in an advisory capacity. His insight would be useful, and he already has a connection to John."

"He'll never agree to that," Charles says. He chuckles dryly, but there is no happiness in him. Even the smugness of gloating over Ben's fate is devoid of any contentment. He feels old - beyond old, weary. He feels used up and dried out, and the sensation is not purely physical. There is a part of him that is exhausted from fighting, which reels dizzily, trying to remember what meant enough to start this war in the first place. He thinks of the island, the sweltering heat and the suffocating humidity, the sand in his shoes rubbing blisters into his skin, the need and scratch of trying to survive in a place both hostile and unforgiving.

"So your actions, sending the freighter and your team - are you working with John Locke? Or on his behalf?"

Widmore releases a dismissive puff of breath, shaking his head. He drinks a little more, though he knows it isn't good for him. _Indulgences, _he thinks as he wets his lips on the scotch. "I am working for the removal of Benjamin Linus from that island," he says. The other man's name tastes bitter in his mouth, and he flings it harshly. "My motives are purely personal."

"Retaliation," Richard sums up, jaw set. He feels a wave of disappointment. The young man he trained to sharp-shoot and hunt has always been arrogant, but Richard expected age to improve matters. "You're going to risk your employees' lives, not to mention those of our people, and the crash survivors, so that you can get back at Ben?"

"You chose him," Widmore spits back. His voice is fiery, accusatory, the sound of a small child gearing up for a massive temper tantrum. "From the moment you spotted him in the jungle - for all I know, even before that moment. What were you doing there, anyway, so close to the border in the midst of that sham truce? I hadn't ordered you there, nor had Eloise, but there you were, conveniently stationed to come across Benjamin when he stumbled out into the jungle. Did Jacob tell you to go there? Did he tell you that you'd find someone special out there among the trees?" Voice rising, he raises an eyebrow, demanding an answer. "Did Jacob send you to find him, Richard?"

Shaking his head, Richard tightens his grip on his own glass. "No," he speaks, truthfully. "We'd heard noises coming from that sector while hunting. After sending my team back with food supplies, I decided to investigate. I thought they might be doing more construction, or that they'd sent out spies." He regards Charles coolly, though there is pity reflected in his eyes. "I came across him by accident. He was Dharma, but too young to be a threat, and unarmed. My intentions were to send him back the way he came before his people got wind of his disappearance and the incident triggered the dissolution of your truce."

"But you didn't just send him back. You talked about him, that very evening. I overheard you speaking to Eloise."

"He had mentioned his mother," Richard says. He has not discussed this before, but the words flow out of him, tired of being locked away as secrets. "He told me that she was dead, but that he had seen her out in the jungle. It made an impact. I investigated his claims a few months later, when Eloise sent me off island on an assignment. His mother had died giving birth to him, years before he had arrived on the island. I'd felt he was special from the first time we met, and even considered eventually adding him to our ranks, but once I learned that - " Richard shakes his head, offering a smile. "I knew he was destined to join us."

"Yet you told me almost nothing about him. Your encounter in the jungle, you never mentioned a word about these visions of his, and you made the decision independently to save his life when he was brought to you by them." Charles presses his lips together disapprovingly. "You disobeyed my direct orders at every turn, as did he almost from the start, and yet neither of you suffered the least consequence. When I made one mistake -"

"You had a child, Charles. Off the island, with a woman who wasn't one of us -"

"He has a child!" Widmore shouts out sullenly. Bristling, he glares, overcome with jealousy and hatred. "He and Ethan were sent out to eliminate an intruder -"

"She posed no threat to the island," Richard points out. "You knew that when you sent them out, that she was no harm. She has never interfered with our actions, in all this time."

Glaring, Charles leans forward in his chair. "No harm! That madwoman murdered her companions! But Benjamin could not see the danger she posed. He corrupted Ethan and acted disloyally. They were given a direct order, and he defied me!" Gripping the arm of his chair with one hand, holding tightly to his glass with the other, he frowns dramatically. "Not only did he leave the Frenchwoman alive, with the full knowledge of our existence, but he kept the child. Twice, I commanded him to destroy her. Kill her painlessly, I advised him, do it before you form an attachment, but he wouldn't, and you supported him in his defiance. She was not one of us, she would never be one of us, but Benjamin refused to listen. Instead, he raised her. She's the second generation of people in our camp who don't belong. Neither she nor Ben belongs on that island. If you had left well enough alone -"

"Jacob healed Ben," Richard interrupts. "In the Temple, when he was fourteen and had been fatally wounded, it was Jacob and the island who fixed him. Not me."

"For you," Charles says, unwilling to be soothed.

"Maybe," Richard agrees calmly. "Or maybe because it was his purpose to lead. Jacob has never shown any reluctance to Ben's leadership until recently, nor has there been any suitable candidates to take your place. The island wanted him. He wouldn't have survived with us otherwise."

Snorting, Widmore drains his last drink and sets aside the glass. "You took in an outsider, yet banished my children, denying them their heritage." His anger gives way to resignation, the old disappointment weighting him down. "You have never met my daughter, Penelope. She's an amazing woman, resilient, strong, persistent. Her mother was not one of us, and for that she has never been allowed to step foot on the island, or even know of it. Daniel," he adds before Richard can interrupt. "My son, and Eloise's, born to her shortly after she left the island. By rights, he should have inherited power. He's special. Gifted, in ways I can't begin to explain. He never knew of the island's existence until a few short months ago. When you brought in Benjamin Linus, you destroyed their chances of fulfilling their destiny."

"It wasn't their fate to lead," Richard contradicts. "You know our leadership process isn't handed down or inherited. Our leaders are discovered early and trained for their position their entire lives. You know that better than most," he adds seriously. "But even if one of them was special, it doesn't change the fact that your actions cost you your continued stay on the island. You broke the rules."

"You plotted to get rid of me from the start!" accuses Widmore. He can feel the alcohol working on him. Instead of providing comfort, it makes him sloppy and increases his temper. Recognizing this, he takes a deep breath. "Bygones," he announces, as if he had not brought up the subject himself. "It's the present we must concern ourselves with. You have been killing my men, Richard." He frowns sternly, but fear of the other man dampens the passion of his temper.

"You waged war against the island, Charles. That makes us enemies."

"I'm not the one bent on destroying that island. Benjamin has never understood the call to leadership. You foisted it upon him, an outsider, but he's not one of us. He never can be. He's not working for the betterment or protection of the island, but simply for his own ends. The experiments, Richard," he adds, trying to make his former advisor see reason. "I know all about what he's doing. He's carving the island as a research experiment, exactly as his people did before you destroyed them. That woman he brought in, it all adds up - your women are dying in childbirth, something which never plagued our people until he came. Now, he's squandering the resources, wasting time trying to cure a curse he brought about."

Shaking his head, Richard stares back evenly. "You don't know that."

"I know healthy babies were delivered on the island," Charles points out. "The problem did not exist until you brought him among us."

"Babies were born on the island after I introduced our people to Ben. Alex," Richard supplies, trying to speak her name carelessly. "For instance. Ben has done nothing to cause the problem. I've disapproved of his choices too. These things go in cycles, and I felt it was a waste of our time and energy trying to solve something that has happened before, a situation that, historically, has resolved itself independently. We don't always share the same priorities."

"Does he listen to you?" Charles wants to know. "When you tell him to abandon his research, does he abide by your ruling?"

"No," Richard answers impassively. "He's our leader. It's his call."

"Ever loyal," Charles sneers. "Forever loyal to Benjamin Linus."

"To Jacob," Richard answers back, cocking an eyebrow. He shakes his head slowly and rises from the chair. "I came to this meeting as a favour to you, Charles, because of our history, but if you're only intention is to insult Ben's leadership, I have better things to do with my time." Setting down his glass, he glances at Charles, a mixture of pity and dislike burning through him. "Do you have any plans for arriving at a truce?"

Frowning, Widmore shakes his head. His blue eyes are clear and fierce as he stares back at Richard, radiating coldness. "The day I surrender that island to him, or to you, is the day I die."

The gun is out before the last syllable falls from Charles' twisted lips. The old man has time to see a quick flash of silver, the overhead light reflecting on the barrel of the revolver, and to jerk backwards, sloshing the ground at his feet with whiskey. Widmore's eyes widen, first in surprise and then in disbelief. He looks up at Richard, a ruin of someone who was once great, and shakes his head slowly. "Richard -"

The explosion of the bullet leaping from the gun drowns out anything further. Richard grits his teeth and fires two more shots into the other man's chest, thinking of debts paid and new beginnings, and of Jacob and Ben. Blood blooms from Widmore's body as he falls, staining the clothes, but as he drops to the ground there is something like peace on his face. The brooding man, the arrogant master of his domain, perpetually unsatisfied, stares blankly up at Richard with eyes that still remember the sights and shadows of the jungle. He does not clutch at his chest or ask for mercy, but simply lets go as Richard glances away, and when Richard looks back over his shoulder while darting from the room, there is nothing left but a corpse. The island reaches out to snatch up its long-lost soldier, as it keeps a tight grasp on all its dead, and out among the trees thousands of miles from the city, the jungle flickers with a new shade.


	15. xv

"_When you finally go back to your old hometown, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood_" - Sam Ewing

* * *

"Where do you think you're going?" a man shouts as Richard strides easily out of the elevator, his hand pressed against the gun stowed for easy access in a hip pocket. The man's eyes widen and he retreats a few steps, hastily holding out his arms in a gesture of surrender. It is then that Richard notices the blood flecks that darken his own shirt. Widmore's blood. The sight of it inspires unease in his man, who shakes his head quickly, paling so extremely that Richard can watch the ruddy color of the man's complexion sink beneath his collar, replaced with ghostly white. He gapes as Richard reluctantly withdraws the gun. "No - no -"

Fixing him with a warning look, Richard fires instead at the security camera behind him. Any of Widmore's associates who might be watching have already seen enough. They will mark him easily. Richard knows that, and does not fear retaliation. Without the financial backing from Charles, few if any of them will decide to make it a personal vendetta. As the camera shatters, the other man leaps out of the way.

"What happened up there?" Widmore's man wants to know. His voice is shaky and his hands are still raised in the air, though Richard can see the gun on his belt and assumes other weapons lay in wait inside his coat. "Is Mr Widmore -"

"Dead," Richard confirms. He gestures and the other man hands over his weapons, kicking them across the floor to Richard, who picks them up, emptying the chamber of the gun and then tossing both it and the knife across the room, out of reach. A wave of sadness washes over him, partially soothed by the work that lies ahead. It is never easy to make replacements, or to topple the well-respected, confident leaders from their posts. Though Charles was exiled decades earlier, he has remained in Richard's mind a leader still. It was Benjamin, Jacob and the island itself that saw Charles escorted to the submarine in shackles. Richard, though not even Widmore knew it, had not found it easy to say goodbye or carry out the punishments ordered.

He shelves the guilt and sorrow as he instructs Widmore's man to go upstairs and see to the body. Cremation or burial will have to suffice; there is neither time nor resource enough to bring the body back to the island for the old ceremony, and Richard will not be able to stand on shore to watch Charles' body drift away in a floating pyre. "Do not come looking for me," he adds, a final warning, and the man nods slavishly. "Call the police, then leave this place. Don't come back here."

"What should I tell them?" the man asks, but falls silent as Richard fixes him with a look of aggravation.

The air is crisp and cool when Richard makes it outside. He walks down the street, breathing heavily and deep, trying to absorb the chilly oxygen as though it might cool his body and his thoughts. Blistering, the anger he feels towards Ben, for what he has been sent to do, mixes with the guilt for so many things. His voice, however, sounds calm, even bored as he calls Mikhail from the cell phone.

"The objective is complete?" Mikhail greets him, not even bothering with a hello. His voice sounds greedy, eager, and pleased; he is glad to have such good news to report back to Ben and feels a shiver of excitement that his leader will display some gratitude. "Richard? Is it over? Have you done it?"

Shoulders squared, Richard walks hurriedly towards the car. Normally, the killing does not bother him. He has killed many times, almost always out of necessity, and he knows this murder was also necessary, but even when he tells himself it is for the island, the guilt does not fade. It's one thing to destroy strangers, those who blunder unintentionally onto their territory as well as those who purposefully invade it, and there has been no trouble taking out Charles' workers, those paid to murder their own. He can justify each death as self-defense, for himself or Alex or the island. Charles, though, is his own. He is one of them and always was, always will be. Killing their own does not suit Richard, who has never been able to perform the punishments occasionally demanded through the years, the murder of traitors or the disobedient. Blandly, he speaks into the phone. "It's done," he confirms.

Pleased, Mikhail smiles to himself. "Where are you now? I'll find you."

"I'm en route to the airport," Richard speaks, surprising himself. There have been no plans made, and he has not even collected his possessions from the hotel, but when he talks, it is with certainty, as though the plan has been settled for weeks. "I'm catching the next flight to Los Angeles."

"Los Angeles?" Mikhail speaks, as though he has never heard of such a place. "No, Richard, our orders were to remain here until we receive further information from Benjamin. We will need to confirm our next move with him. I must make my report to him, he'll tell us what to do."

Sitting down in the car, Richard cranks the key. The engine roars to life, speaking his frustration. "Make your report, then. I'm going. Tell him I'll see him soon. I'll be at the Lamp Post as soon as I can. Contact Eloise for me, will you? Tell her to meet me."

"Of course, of course," Mikhail agrees, his brow knotted in concern. "If you're certain this cannot wait -"

"It cannot," Richard decides.

"What should I tell the others? Juliet, Tom - Alex?"

"Tell them whatever you like," Richard suggests as he clicks the phone closed, ending the conversation. He steps on the gas pedal and tosses the phone onto the seat beside him, needing to get away from the scene of the crime. Normally not squeamish, he decides to make one stop before the airport, at a gas station, where he can use the filthy restroom to wash Charles' blood off hands that will never feel clean again.

* * *

__________________

Three months later…

The tropical sun is warmer than Alex remembers it. Golden and intense, it beats down upon her bared shoulders and face, brightening skin that has been hidden and pale for the last year. Too much time has passed for this to feel like a homecoming for her, but there is nonetheless something familiar about the press of humidity against her body and the moisture that floats through the air, carrying the distinctive tang of salt. Beneath her bare feet, the old wooden dock is smooth, the splinters long ago worn down by time and weather.

"Heads up, Alex!" Tom calls from the dock of their little craft. He waits a moment, then tosses down her pack. The conversation between them as dissolved into nothingness, not that he takes it personally. Lately, Alex seems to have nothing to say to anybody. At first he had presumed it was Richard's conspicuous, unexplained absence that had bothered her, but the depression had lifted in due course and still she had not talked. "Think you can take one more?" he asks, holding out her duffle. Alex reaches for it and Tom lets it fall, and for a moment, his eyes stray to the jungle and he sees a flash of beige moving against the trees. "Looks like they were expecting us."

Sure enough, a moment later they are greeted by Mikhail, who strides out from amongst the foliage in his familiar old jumpsuit, a patch shielding his ruined eye from view. Behind him, several people Alex does not recognize restore the safety catches on their weapons and shoulder them, recognizing from Mikhail's posture that these new arrivals are not strangers nor enemies.

She can feel, for a moment, the frosty touch of Moscow winter despite the glow of the sun overhead, and the words she learned rise unbidden to Alex's lips, but she scowls instead of speaking and concentrates on loading canned goods onto a rusty old dolly. All around her is the sound of rushing water, warm waves lapping the shore. The sound is beautiful, but Alex's shoulders sag in disappointment. She had hoped Richard would be one of the first to meet her, and now she realizes it was a foolish hope. When he left, he had not offered so much as a goodbye. Certainly he had given her no explanation for the strange lucid dreams she experienced, which were so real she might have lived through them once, a long time ago. Instead of parting promises, Richard had abandoned her with a multitude of questions and a hollow feeling in her chest that never seemed to fade, no matter how much she distracted herself with work.

"Alex!" Mikhail calls, walking over to her. He takes a crate of canned soup from Tom and loads it on the dolly. Critically, his one useful eye examines her. "You look well," he announces. "Much better than last time."

Instead of answering, Alex nods briefly, concentrating on jostling the bags of powdered milk so that they fit into her pack. "Thanks to Juliet," she speaks softly after a moment, reaching up to take a box of medical supplies from Tom. As is tradition for those returning to the island, they had spent two days docked in New Zealand, gathering food, clothing and other necessary supplies to bring back for their people. She offers Juliet a rare affectionate look, watching as the blonde rakes her fingers through sweat-dampened hair and grapples with a weighty tool kit from the mainland. "She made me better."

"We lost all communication with you nearly a week ago," Mikhail says, glancing at Tom. His voice is mild, as though the matter were a mere curiosity, but there is an edge that they all recognize; Ben has been impatient. "You did not call to inform us that the work you were doing was finished. Benjamin was concerned. He had hoped not to lose any additional members of the team."

Tom tosses down a heavy burlap sack full of seeds and small gardening implements, forcing Mikhail to lunge for it. "Well, he'll be glad to see we're all safe and sound. After leaving Los Angeles, we flew to New Zealand to get hold of a boat and purchase some supplies. We sailed out on Friday, and we were lucky enough to just outrun a hell of a storm brewing near the Solomon islands. Eloise didn't make contact?"

Shouldering the bag, Mikhail shakes his head and gestures for the rest of the people with him to begin loading additional luggage into one of the vans hidden in the trees. "Not that I have heard, though of course I am not privy to all of the information Benjamin receives. He is looking forward to seeing you, Alex," he adds, studying her. There is something different, but he cannot put his finger on what.

"Where is Ben?" Juliet questions. She wraps her arms around her body, apprehensive. Tom returned out of loyalty, and Alex, though hardly concerned about doing her duty, had agreed to come back to the island voluntarily, for lack of anyplace else to go. Juliet, however, had returned purely out of obligation. Being back in the United States had been torture for her. Over the past month she had been permitted to observe, but not contact, Rachel and Julian. Ben's spies maintained a close presence, holding a proverbial guillotine over Rachel's head to ensure Juliet's continued cooperation. Any mistakes, any attempts to dodge him or go underground and escape would be punished swiftly. There would be a bullet to Rachel's temple, and Julian, already of interest to Ben, would be brought to the island, forever out of her reach.

Mikhail offers a subdued smile. He has not forgotten the temper Juliet displayed when he had first contacted her with the news that Richard was gone. Her need for answers had surpassed Alex's and she had held Mikhail fully responsible for Alex's abandonment. "He has been radioed. He should be arriving at the Pala Ferry dock within the hour. Presently, he is at the Hydra."

"What's he doing there?" Juliet asks, unable to suppress a shiver despite the heat. "We haven't conducted testing or examination in the Hydra since the med station was repaired." Despite the passage of time she can recall the cold damp press of the air in the station beneath the water line, and the sense of fear and isolation that she had endured when she had been held captive there, briefly. The Hydra too had been the place where she had conducted her early experiments, after the first examinations of the island's pregnant women had yielded strange, inexplicable results. Eventually, the studies on sharks and dolphins had proven inconclusive; their biological differences, and the shark's noted healing abilities, had shed doubt on her findings. Ethics had eventually led to the release of the mammals she had studied as well. Most were descendants of Dharma experimentation animals, and there was no telling what kinds of mutations had occurred in their lineage or what kinds of experiments the Dharma scientists had performed on their ancestors. As the women had continued dying even though the animals were breeding and delivering healthy offspring normally, Juliet had experienced her first waves of resignation. Her work would change nothing. The confidence Edmund had tried so hard to beat down had resurfaced later, but not before she had been toughened by her experiences, all the meek and delicate parts of her nature burned away; Ben's handiwork. "I didn't think he'd gone back since his surgery."

"A significant amount of time has passed, Juliet," Mikhail counters emotionlessly, raising an eyebrow as she stares back at him questioningly. "Benjamin has decided to continue where your experiments left off. He has assembled a team of training scientists and doctors, most of them are very new recruits. I assume he will expect your help training them on the task."

Shaking her head, Juliet stares. "Pregnant women are still dying on this island?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

She slaps her hand against the side of boat hard enough for pain to ricochet through her bones. "Why isn't he sending them to the mainland for treatment? He's letting this happen! I told him before I left, this is futile. Whatever is causing the women's bodies to attack and destroy the developing fetus, it isn't something we can fix. But he won't let them leave, will he?" she asks accusingly, eyes narrowed and furious.

Mikhail sets his jaw, protective of his idolized leader. "Regrettably, it has not been feasible to allow -"

"Why?"

"For their own protection, and for ours." Mikhail frowns, studying her warily. "In their vulnerable physical state, it is simply too dangerous. They could be attacked, murdered, interrogated for information."

"So instead Ben just lets them die," Juliet exclaims, overcome. She can feel the weight of her return pressing against her shoulders, burying her beneath a mountain of exhaustion, guilt, fear and anger. As much as she wants to turn tail and run, just take the boat and go, there is no escape. She is not concerned for herself so much, but she knows it will take one simple call to the right people to have Rachel killed for her insubordination, and if her sister dies, Juliet will have no one to blame but herself. "How soon can you arrange someone to bring me to the Hydra?"

A thin smile crosses Mikhail lips. "I believe Ben will return there sometimes tonight. You will certainly be welcome to accompany him. In the meantime, I suggest you rest so you will be capable of working this evening. Come with me, please, all of you, I will show you where you are staying."

"The bunkers -"

"Sustain significant damage during the attack. I was surprised to see it myself," Mikhail interrupts before Alex can question him further. "We have been repairing the damage as quickly as possible, but unfortunately resources have been scarce and we are unable to dedicate many to the task. Currently, only several of our people are on duty making the repairs."

His words are an understatement; the housing compound has been razed. Less than half of the houses are still standing and some of those are in ruins, nothing but charred support beams and mangled furniture. As she walks past the house she once shared with Ben, Alex bites her lip. Though the house is still mostly intact, there are signs of an old explosion. Every window has been broken, and the filthy bits of glass are scattered among the overgrown weeds and tall grass that surrounds the place. Only one hinge remains to support the front door, which blows open and closed slowly with the wind. She can see far enough in side to notice the ruined carpet and to see that Ben's collection of books have been bloated by rainwater and are now growing mold.

"Alex," Mikhail gestures, pointing to one of the few undamaged houses. Amongst all the wreckage, the bright yellow paint seems gaudy and smug. There are fresh flowers in vases on the porch railing, and electric lights burning. "You will be staying here."

"Who else lives here?" Alex wants to know. She can see movement inside, some shadowy figure walking swiftly and with purpose past the window, who does not bother to glance out at her. For a moment, her heart leaps, imagining Richard. "Does my father -"

"Ben has resumed using his quarters at the Hydra," Mikhail says. "No, this house is your own. Benjamin thought you would prefer it to the dormitories. Cindy is inside, cleaning it for you. These buildings have been abandoned until quite recently."

She blinks in surprise. "It's for me? Alone?" The surprise she feels dissipates after a moment as she recognizes the gift for what it is. Ben means no compliment, of that she is certain. The spacious house with the precious amenities of running water and electricity is restitution for all she has lost, and a bribe to purchase her continued obedience. Now that she is older, more capable of carrying out the kind of work Ben so often wants done, he intends to use her. "Can Juliet stay with me?"

"For this afternoon," Mikhail concedes. "Perhaps for several days, even, until quarters are established inside the station. We did not expect you to arrive for a few more days, though I know Ben will be pleased to have you all back so soon."

After a moment, Alex gathers her courage, steeling herself. "How long has Richard been back?"

All eyes are upon her for a moment, but then Mikhail speaks, breaking the silence. "Richard has not yet returned to the island. After completing his assignment in Ontario he was reassigned and instructed to remain on the mainland. I believe Ben has employed him for observation."

"But why?" Alex wants to know. "Widmore was killed, right?"

"Charles Widmore is not our only concern," Mikhail answers. "That particular problem has been dealt with, but there are other, significantly more mild but yet still thorns in Benjamin's side. I am not certain when his work will be completed, but I have no doubt if Richard is assigned to remain off the island, Ben considers the job of special importance."

"What happened to the rest of John's people?" Alex wants to know. "Claire, Kate -"

" - James," Juliet interjects, before she can stop herself.

"He is with Richard," Mikhail explains sagely. "Claire and Kate have been returned to the mainland, where they continue to monitor the situation we are experiencing in Los Angeles. You will be briefed, certainly, if Benjamin finds the information he has pertinent to your job here," he adds to Juliet before she can ask any more questions. "The doctor, Jack, is part of the team at the Hydra station. I believe you will be able to see him tonight. Most of the other airplane crash survivors are here working for us in some capacity; those that were interested in preserving their lives, at any rate. It was difficult. Mr. Widmore's offers seemed very convincing to some of them, before he died." Idly, he shrugs, not bothering to elaborate. The pleasure he feels to be back where he belongs, at Ben's side, is overwhelming, and he is eager to prove to his leader that he has remained capable and in control. He takes Alex's luggage from her and sets it just inside the door of the house. "You can unpack later. For now, I advise you to rest. I must check the radio and see if Benjamin is on his way. When he arrives, he will not doubt want to speak to you directly," he adds with a touch of warning in his voice. It makes Alex wonder what exactly her father knows, and how much Mikhail has told him. Tom too looks uneasy, though Juliet only appears bored. "Sleep, both of you. The work will not wait. Tom-"

"What kind of work?" Alex calls to him as he begins to guide Tom towards the dormitories. In the distance, the echo of hammers pounding nails is audible, along with the dull murmur of conversation, though no one aside from the knot of people that have accompanied Mikhail have shown up to greet them. She shakes her head, puzzled. She had left the island a child. Occasionally, Ben had rounded her up to carry out menial tasks such as filing and inventory, but the jobs had mostly served as distractions, to reduce her contact with Karl and her capacity for getting into trouble. Her education had been the main focus of her time, and though it was self-directed, Alex had allowed learning to consume her slow days, at least until things had fallen apart with their people. She had assumed without giving the issue much thought that she would return to that sort of purposeless existence, back to life of waiting and wandering. The idea is not a cheery one, but it was familiar.

"The assignment Benjamin has planned for you is confidential. I do not know any details." Mikhail shakes his head and turns to Tom. "You and I will be monitoring communications. There is work being done in the Looking Glass; we hope to have it fully restored and operational within the week. Luckily, it has sustained minimal damage. Widmore was unaware of its creation and none of his people were notified, only the flooding is problematic. The Flame too has been rebuilt, and much of the equipment I brought back has already been installed and is ready to be utilized. The station is fully functional and there is housing available for at least four, though for the moment," he adds significantly, meeting Tom's gaze, "It will just be the two of us along. We will take a van out as far as the horse pasture. I trust," he adds with a teasing smile, "you have not forgotten how to ride?"

"Looking forward to it."

"Good. We will stay here until Benjamin is able to address you. He will want a full report, I am certain. Then we can go, once it is dark. I will take the evening shift and allow you your rest. You are certainly exhausted after several days of sailing."

Tom nods eagerly. "Sounds good to me."

"Mikhail!" comes a shout suddenly, and a young boy darts out onto the path, holding a walkie-talkie eagerly above his head. Alex stares for a moment, then recognizes Zach, one of the child survivors of the crash. He goggles at them for a moment, trying to place them, then returns to his mission. "Adam sent me with this. It's for you! Ben is on the boat. He wants you to meet him on the Pala Ferry dock. He wants to talk to them." His eyes flick over to Juliet for a nervous moment. "All of them."

"Benjamin?" Mikhail speaks, reaching for the walkie and depressing the button.

"Mikhail," comes Ben's familiar voice. Alex feels herself shiver, as does Juliet, but Tom looks heartened. "Are they here?"

"Right beside me, Benjamin. I am explaining the arrangement to Tom as we speak."

"Is Alex with them?"

"She is here."

Half a kilometer off shore, Ben releases a soft sound of relief. "Put her on, please, Mikhail."

Wordlessly, Mikhail holds out the device, but Alex takes a moment before she can will herself to reach for it. "Dad?" she tries. The word sounds rusty and unfamiliar in her mouth. She has not called him that for years, preferring instead to use his given name, much to his offence. Hurting him, of course, had been the point. Static crackles. "Are you there?"

"Alex," Ben breathes. He does not allow himself any further display of emotion but from his perch on the boat he rises, scanning the trees for any glimpse. "Listen to me, Alex. My boat will be docking in twenty minutes. I need you to do something for me. We have to talk. I want you to wait for me, until I get a full report from Tom. You'll need to go find John Locke. Find John and tell him you are to wait inside. Don't go out, do you understand? Talk to no one else, except for Mikhail. Everything else I will explain when I get there." He hesitates, imagining offering a father-daughter endearment, but the dialog between them is perfunctory. Alex sounds like a stranger, her voice strangely formal. Instead, he sighs. "Thank you, Alex," he says instead, though he is not sure why. Maybe for the fact that she has come back after all this time; certainly he has been kept awake on many nights imagining her slipping the noose and escaping his reach, never to be found again. That she called him 'Dad' is undeniably meaningful. He concentrates on the business at hand, aware that their communication is monitored. "Now put Mikhail back on."

Without replying, Alex returns the walkie-talkie to Mikhail, who listens to a few perfunctory statements before giving the device to Zach, who scampers off, returning to the listening post just beyond the barracks. She can feel herself pale, the color draining from her face as she realizes what is happening. She is really home, back on the island, back under Ben's control, and there is no place left to run.


	16. xvi

It could have been just yesterday when Alex stood on the icy rime that edged the Thames and struggled to supposed a howling urge for her home island. Ben looks precisely the same as how Alex left him. His clothes are familiar; the same khaki slacks that strike her as somewhat too informal for his personality, the near buttoned-up shirt that refuses to crease despite the humidity, the collar that will not wilt despite the heat. Ben's eyes pierce Alex's as he steps inside the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, reducing his mouth to a shark-like slit. His gaze darts around the room, settling on John Locke, who quietly excuses himself from the room, not needing to be told twice.

"Alex," he tries, when they are alone. She looks away and Ben takes the opportunity to look her over._ God, she's grown_. The truth makes him recoil; has it really been that long since he had his daughter with him? Even barefoot, she is a good two inches taller than when she left. Her posture is different, her stance less slumped despite the emotions that play across her face, seeming to beat her down. Ben's hand twitches forward, wanting to touch her hair. She has done something to it, for it is shiny and it smells of apples. _She's grown up_, he thinks, clenching his jaw. It is not what he has expected, or what he wants to see. Whatever they have been through, he still remembers how it felt to hold her when she was just a week old.

"Dad," Alex responds tonelessly, dropping back down to the couch. She folds her legs and stares at the hem of the shorts she has changed into, picking the loose threads of the old cut-offs. They are a little too tight, a bit too short, but everything else she owns now is suitable for winter in foreign cities, warm shelter from the wind and snow. Her face is paler than Ben remembers it, and there are bluish shadows under her eyes. "What did you want to talk about?" She scowls, feeling the familiar oppression weighing her down. Mentally, she mocks herself; had she really expected anything to be different? "Mikhail and Locke wouldn't tell me anything," Alex adds significantly. Such silence is no longer acceptable, for she is used to knowing what is going on and not being dismissed as a mere child. What has she done, Alex wonders, returning here? She thinks of the little boat still bobbing in the calm waters off the dock, and wonders if she could get to it without being caught.

Ben does not answer her immediately, an old habit to keep the balance of power unstable. "Tom said you ran into trouble on the way here. The storm," he clarifies as she looks at him in confusion.

Alex shrugs her shoulders. "There was a squall that hit a bit south of us but we didn't have to face the brunt of it, just some choppy water. I've been in worse."

Now is the time to say something meaningful, anything, and Ben knows this and hates himself all the more because he won't. The fear of vulnerability is an ancient one, stemming from his childhood well before arriving on the island. Even when the stakes involve losing Alex, he has learned his lesson well, and refuses to express anything that could be construed as emotional weakness. "I hope Mikhail's right and the boat sustained only minimal damage. We're sending a team out in two days to begin recruiting on the mainland," Ben announces. "We lost a lot of people, Alex," he continues as she stares at him in disbelief, as though he honestly believes it is news of the recruitment that has startled her. "It's vital we replenish our numbers."

Hands flat against her thighs, Alex shrugs again. "Sure." Then she looks at him, and refuses to look away. "What did you want to talk to me about, Ben?"

"Alex -"

"Dad," she interrupts, holding onto one of the throw pillows on the couch so she will not claw welts into her own hands with her fingernails. It hurts too much, being back here in this place and trying to play normal. Nothing has changed; Ben is still giving orders and she is still stuck following them or fighting, no middle ground. Then again, everything has changed. Tom knows her secrets. So does Juliet, and Mikhail too. They are no longer just members of her father's entourage, lackeys under whose radar she used to be able to fly. They know things, and they have seen things. Richard is gone, and that is the worst change. Once upon a time Alex would barely notice the fact, but it cuts her now, his absence conspicuous. What does it mean, she wonders, that he has not come back to find her? Taking a deep, calming breath, she meets Ben's eyes, her expression unrelenting. "What is it you want from me?" she tries in a ladylike voice, pretending their reunion might possibly go well.

Ben narrows his deep blue eyes at her, as intrusive as a polygraph as they search for something to read and exploit. The report from Mikhail flickers through his mind and he has to restrain himself from shouting. "I'd like some answers. I spoke to Juliet earlier. She told me that while you were sick, she had to give you a blood transfusion." He studies her for a moment, noting the slight pallor. "I hope you're feeling better now, Alex. We can really use you around here."

"I'm fine," she replies. "That was twelve weeks ago. I've recovered completely since then."

"Lucky you had Juliet with you," Ben responds in a voice that makes it clear he is displeased. "You must have been very sick to require a transfusion be carried out. Incidentally, who was the blood donor? Tom?" From the way he studies Alex, it is clear he already knows the answer to his question.

Feigning innocence, Alex blinks back at him, wide-eyed, and shakes her head. "No idea. I was unconscious a lot of the time. Juliet said I had hallucinations," she adds vaguely, seeking the transparent flicker of visions she can barely place as they dance before her eyes. She clenches her fist, feeling Richard's blood run through her veins, honeyed with promises she cannot stand to hear.

"Tom told me you saw visions," Ben says softly, holding back the emotion from his voice. He speaks, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "He said you saw Jacob."

"Maybe," Alex allows, then shrugs. "I was really sick, I didn't know what was going on. I saw all kinds of different things, none of them were real. Juliet said that is very common with high fevers. People see things that are not there."

"But you're better now?" Alex is a good liar, trained at Ben's knee, but he is still far superior, and sees through the attempt. When he smiles, his eyes show no expression other than cunning. "Good," he continues as she nods. Inside, he feels a pang of jealousy. He is tired of having to share the honor of being chosen by the island with others. John Locke's miraculous recovery has all but overshadowed the fact that Ben was healed in the Temple, and now Alex has a similar boast. "I wish I could have brought you back sooner. You know, Alex, we have sustained a lot of damage here, but nothing has pained me more than being away from you. I hope you understand, I sent you away for your own good. Being here would have simply been too dangerous -"

"If you'd cared about my safety at all, you never would have sent me with Richard," Alex retorts, sitting up straight. She glares at him, feeling anger rush over her. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it was for us?" Ben recoils from her, flinching in pain at her anger, but Alex does not stop. "We were always right in the middle of it. Nothing was ever safe, so don't you sit there and lie to me and try to tell me you knew what was best. I know what you made them do, all of them. Richard used to come in with his hands still bloody from killing the people you told him to destroy. Widmore's people were all around us. I almost got taken once," she adds harshly, watching as Ben pales and realizing he had never been told. "You didn't know, did you?" When he shakes his head mutely, Alex glares. "You never bothered to find out."

"Alex -"

"Don't," she says, jerking away as he tries to touch her shoulder. "I know what you're trying to do, but it isn't going to work. You and I both know you aren't my real father." Ben narrows his eyes, stung, but Alex refuses to feel sympathy for him. "It doesn't matter," she goes on, restraining her fury. "You want me to pretend, I'll do it. I'll pretend to be part of the team if that's what you want. What else am I going to do? You and I both know I'll never get off this island again." The weight of the truth hits her, and she frowns, feeling sorrow wash over her. "I won't let myself get taken in. I know you better then they do," Alex continues, gesturing past the doorway, where her father's people work. "I know what you're capable of, so if you want my cooperation, don't underestimate that. Let's stop pretending you aren't manipulating all of them. You know," she goes on as Ben feigns puzzlement, "the way you're blackmailing Juliet by threatening to kill her sister. Yeah," she continues as he stares back evenly. "I know, so don't try to deny it."

After a moment, Ben regains his composure and releases his breath slowly, calculating. "If that's what you want, Alex, if that's what it takes for you to trust me -"

"Trust you!" Alex exclaims. She tilts her head, imitating Ben's expression of amused resignation perfectly. Then she smiles, wide, showing white teeth. "What world are you living in where you think I could possibly ever trust you?"

"All right," Ben retorts in a harsher voice, holding up his hands to ward off the attack. He thinks of pushing her on the swings, her high little girl voice, pigtails flying, and feels another stab to the heart, despite all his caution. "Please, Alex," he adds as she makes to start talking again. "I think you've said enough." He goes to the cabinet and withdraws a dusty bottle of whiskey. It is MacCutcheon, one of the last bottles of the cache he managed to salvage. He pours two glasses and hands one of them to Alex. "This isn't how I wanted things to become between us. I hope you realize how much it pains me to see how much our relationship has disintegrated." Alex watches him warily. When Ben takes a small sip of his drink, Alex follows suit. "At this point, I don't know how it can be repaired. Is it too much to ask for you to tell me what you want?"

Alex considers for a moment, then decides to take the risk. No doubt however good a friend Mikhail can be to her, he has kept nothing from Ben. "Bring Richard back."

Ben raises an eyebrow slightly, watching her face. She looks older, but she is still too young. He can scarcely believe Mikhail's theories, even now that he has questioned Tom for confirmation. Alex is too young for any sort of relationship, but this is worse even than the childish infatuation with Karl. Of course, in Ben's mind she will always been too young for any relationship that threatens to take her away from him. Out of all the women he has loved, only Alex is still caught within his grasp, and though she is doing everything possible to escape, Ben has no intentions of letting her go. Losing Alex would be too painful. He has never seen the mother he has missed all of his life, and can scarcely remember the visions of her that he used to encounter as a child. Annie too is lost to him, and if Juliet is on the island it is only because of his threats and her fears; despite his fantasies and hopes, no other bonds have been formed between them. Alex, however, remains. Ben can remember leaning over her bed for hours when she was a child, watching her sleep, and can recall precisely the way her small hand felt reaching for his. He has no intention of letting anyone take her away, even the man he trusts most in the world - especially him, come to that.

"What?" Ben asks, stalling. He stares at her, pretending not to understand the reason for her request.

"Call off Richard's assignment," Alex instructs, and a note of pleading enters into her voice. She bites back the emotion when she remembers exactly whom she is dealing with. "Bring him back to the island. You do that, and I'll do whatever you want, I promise."

"I'll keep that in mind," Ben answers without commitment. He holds up his glass. "If you don't like it, I'll have yours. I'd rather it did not go to waste."

She narrows her eyes at him, watching as he shrugs, taking another sip from his own glass. "It's fine," Alex replies. She drinks the rest of the whiskey in one swallow, then she stands up, needing to get away from Ben. She needs someone to talk to, and thinks immediately of Juliet. "Are we done here?"

"We're done," Ben agrees, "for now."

"I'll talk to you later," Alex says. "I want to find Juliet."

Shaking his head slowly, Ben takes Alex's empty glass and sets it on a nearby table. He can feel John hovering just out of sight, observing, and feels a rush of gratitude for him despite the perpetual sense of competition between the two of them. "Juliet?" he asks curiously, as though he does not know her.

"She's waiting for me," Alex explains. "At the house Mikhail said was mine."

"Not anymore," Ben says. His eyes are bright and cunning, and he offers a slight smile. "They needed her at the Hydra. I can radio her if you have a message."

After staring at him for a moment, Alex brushes past Ben without so much as a goodbye, intending to return to the little house Mikhail had called her own and unpack, then sleep for at least twelve hours, but suddenly, she is hit by a wave of overwhelming vertigo.

"Ben?" she asks questioningly as she staggers backward, off balance. Holding on to the back of the couch for balance, Alex watches in horror as the room starts to spin around her. "Oh my god." The dizziness is nauseating and she feels her stomach buckle against the acid burn of the alcohol. _He put something in the drink_, she thinks, her last coherent thought before her comprehension is reduced to bright, disconnected flashes.

"Sit down, Alex," Ben instructs, settling a hand on her shoulder.

Smacking away his hands, Alex pivots, hurrying towards the door, but her legs no longer function as she planned. Her knees buckle, spilling her down to the floor, and even when she blinks, everything seems blurry. For a moment, she is aware of John Locke hauling her up to her feet, but the next she is falling in an arc, the touch of breeze against her skin symbolic that she has made it out of the house. There are voices, but Alex lies facedown in the grass, ignoring them. John picks her up, and although Alex wants to fight, she has no control over her limbs, which feel leaden.

"Close the door," Ben demands as John lays Alex down on the couch. "We'll wait until its dark to move her. I don't want anyone asking questions. The last thing I need is anyone else trying to pry."

John straightens up, then glances at Alex, who is already asleep. "What did you give her?"

Ben withdraws a small bottle from his pocket and hands it over. "Triazolam," he announces, tossing over the bottle. "Jack suggested twenty-five milligrams. Looks like he knows what he's talking about. She should be out for at least four hours. Go radio Mikhail, tell him we'll need him to get here at dusk." Once John leaves the room, Ben sinks down on the couch beside Alex and smoothes her hair from her forehead. "I'm sorry, Alex, but I don't have any other choice." His eyes glimmer, greedy with love and jealousy, dark with revenge and remorse. "You saw Jacob." 


	17. xvii

The first two months Richard spends away from Alex are lost in a fog. Sleep eludes him, showing him visions that he does not care to see, and he prowls darkened cities in the wee, silent hours, moving down the abandoned streets like a phantom. It is retribution that he turns his attentions to, letting vengeance consume him as he fulfils Jacob's wishes, hunting down the scattered crowd from Widmore Industries. This isn't his fight, it never was, but Richard assures himself that his work is important as he eliminates any lingering threat. There is no purpose to it; he is a chaos element, whatever Jacob has assured him to the contrary. Destiny doesn't just happen. It needs the right conditions, and it is Richard's job to create them. People need to be wounded to recover, or so he tells himself when the thought of his victims' loved ones occurs to him. They need to be broken to find strength. This he knows from experience, and considers it ruefully, wondering if he will finally attain invincibility. Certainly, he feels shattered, when he lets himself feel anything.

"Why are you doing this?" Penelope Widmore asks when Richard arrives at her Sydney slip one deep, moonlit night. The reflection of the moon glows white on the still water, and it is bright enough for Richard to see the opera house in the distance, a miracle of architecture.

She shivers and pulls her wrap more tightly around her shoulders, standing barefoot on the dock a short distance from the boat. Inside, below, Desmond sleeps and so does Charlie. It has been a long day, searching through maps to chart the easiest path back to Los Angeles and the woman whose words jerk Des from his sleep some nights. His nightmares have grown so frequent that they no longer wake the little boy. Unlike Charlie, however, Penny can never fall back to sleep after being awoken to the sounds of her husband's madness, the babble of needing to go back and the cursed assurances that he cannot escape his fate. It is the nightmares that have driven her out here, off the boat, needing solid ground, as though it might make a difference.

She stares into the face of the man who murdered her father and his associates, unable to see the monster within. She is sure he is a monster - the body count has continued to rise, and she knows enough about Benjamin Linus to understand who has loosed this vengeful demon on the world - but Richard only seems sad, and purposeful.

"Why?" she asks again, unable to look away as he withdraws the gun. "You knew him, my father - you were his friend, a long time ago. He mentioned you, Richard. You are Richard, aren't you?"

Richard's smile is grim. "Yes, I knew him," he agrees, and suppresses the stab of guilt. One day, he is certain, the ability will leave him, forcing him to bear the brunt of regret. He has much to be guilty for, more sins than could be accumulated in anyone else's lifetime. He does not comment on her assumption of friendship, remembering the frustration that had grew within him each time Widmore did something brash and stupid.

"You're from the island," Penny assesses. Her gaze flicks back to the boats tethered to the dock. Her houseboat floats among them, bobbing gently in the waves. The splash of water against the pier is like a lullaby, and she hopes Charlie can hear it, and that it will soothe Desmond to sleep. If he wakes, comes for her - but she shudders, refusing to dwell on the worry. "Trouble always came from that island." When Richard raises his eyebrow skeptically, Penny smiles slightly through her fear. "He used to tell me about it, the place he was from, the life he lived before. It was his obsession, getting back there. My father was not a bad man, but that obsession consumed him. It changed him." She shrugs, as though Richard were merely an uninvited guest and not a threat. "I can't say I'm pleased to see you."

"Loose ends," Richard tells her in his smoothest voice. He reads sorrow in those green eyes as Penny stares back at him, waiting for the worst. "You're his daughter, a Widmore. Ben wants to ensure all threats are eliminated."

"It's Hume now, actually," Penny replies with a touch of pique. The ring around her finger still feels a novelty. Even standing before Richard, knowing the gun he holds will end her life in a few short minutes, she cannot prevent the habit of holding out her hand and letting the moonlight reflect off the diamond. She spares another glance back at the boat. "And Desmond? My son?"

Richard shakes his head. "I'm only here for you."

"I understand," Penny explains, and that is the truth. She has lived most of her life away from her father, trying to break away from the name and image, but she has never completely escaped him. Charles Widmore has been lurking in the shadows for her entire lifetime, a curious element she could never rely upon to be wholly benevolent or unfailingly cruel. He was there with bribes to pay her way through the finishing school he had hoped would refine her, and there, according to Desmond, to snatch the letters Des had posted, to break her heart. She had always scoffed at his dire predictions, his anger at someone named Benjamin, whom she has heard about since childhood, but a part of her has always expected this. "Not here," she says to Richard. Her voice is even, not begging, and her expression demands obedience. "I don't want them to hear."

He shows her the silencer on his gun, then exhales and points the way towards his rental car.

"You won't hurt them?" Penny asks again, then bites her lips. "Leave me behind, when it's all over. I want Desmond to know. I won't have him left without answers, never knowing what's happened to me, still clinging to false hope."

Her words startle him down to his core. He can imagine Alex waking, full of questions he is not there to explain away. For a long moment he clutches the gun, prepared to have done with it. Then he sighs and lowers the weapon. Moonlight bathes the pavement, and Penny's eyes seem to gleam. "Go," he tells her, holding out his hands. Widmore's words come back to him, and he thinks the man might have been right. Leadership potential is evident in Penny's fearless stare, her refusal to plead with him. She has inherited her father's imperiousness. Shaking her head slightly in disbelief, Penny draws away from him a step, suspecting him still.

Richard looks at her harshly. "Go," he repeats. This time she obeys orders, walking backwards away from him, unwilling to turn away lest he shoot her in the back. He picks up on her thoughts and he feels like a monster, a twisted thing put to bad use, a danger to behold. Gripping the gun, Richard spins on his heel, his jaw clenched against his own abrupt anger. He waits by the car until he hears the sound of the waves slapping the dock, signalling a boat has left the slip. Then, finally, he wrenches open the door.

"Richard," speaks a voice, stopping him.

He would recognize it anywhere. It is the voice that questioned him when she was a child and spoke to him haughtily as a leader, the voice of a woman who would never underestimate him. He releases the handle of his car and turns expectantly towards Eloise. She looks different now, older, her hair white and her piercing eyes shrouded in flesh that is no longer so smooth, but there are similarities. She still appears a threat, not a woman to be crossed or challenged.

"Eloise."

"Put that gun away, Richard," Eloise snaps, making him realize he is still holding it. She shakes her head, her eyes flicking heavenward with exasperation.

Richard waits a moment, but she does not speak, and so he has to. "Did you come here to stop me?"

She shakes her head, a wispy sound of amusement escaping her lips. "If you were meant to have murdered the girl, Richard, she would be dead. You can't stop what's coming for you. Haven't you learned that yet?"

"So why are you here?"

Eloise narrows her eyes at him, refusing to be cowed by his rudeness. "How well do you know Alexandra Linus?"

"Rousseau," Richard corrects before he can stop himself. Eloise's sharp gaze makes him look down. "She's not Ben's, as I'm sure you remember. Her mother's surname was Rousseau."

"Well enough, I see," Eloise exclaims softly. She shakes her head, scolding him. "I heard some rather frightful gossip that last time I spoke to Thomas. At the time, I was certain he was mistaken. I think I understand now."

Richard jangles the keys in his hand, impatient to escape into the anonymity of Sydney. He longs for the feeling of flight, the glorious moments of lift-off where he can convince himself for just a few seconds that the next place he goes will be better, that things will no longer fall apart. Frowning at Eloise, he wonders how they have managed to reverse roles yet again. Who is in charge has been a constant question. He was her leader once, then she was his. Now the power between them is up for grabs. "I'm glad you understand," he says with as much respect in his voice as he can manage. "I don't mean to cut this short," he continues as she glares, well aware of his sarcasm. "But I have a plane to catch."

"Why did you leave her?" Eloise questions just before Richard manages to shut the door.

His heart slams against his rib cage. "Did Ben send you?"

"Are you actually asking me if I'm here on orders from Benjamin Linus?" she scoffs, incredulous. "Oh, Richard," she sighs, shaking her head in disappointment. "Whatever would give you such an idea? No, I'm afraid my purpose for the moment is to serve as your escort. You won't need those," she adds, pointing to the clutch of false passports and an envelope of foreign currency. "You're not leaving the country."

"Ben instructed -"

"Since when do you answer to Benjamin?" Eloise questions disdainfully. After a moment, she makes eye contact. "Do you love her?"

"Ellie…"

Gazing up in exasperation, Eloise clucks her tongue. The juvenile nickname still has the power to infuriate her. "I'm not here to play games with you. Let me put it another way: would you be willing to postpone your trip to Germany if I told you I have information that would help save Alex's life?"

Richard's heart skips a beat. "Alex is on the island. She's safe."

"She's on the island," Eloise agrees. "She arrived two days ago, in fact." When she sees the shock on Richard's face, she shakes her head. "You thought they'd sent her back months ago, didn't you? No, she's been with Tom and Juliet, cleaning up as it were. And I'm afraid I'll have to challenge you on the second point as well. The island is no longer safe. Here," she says, gesturing to a black car. Richard can see people waiting inside, but it is too dark to make out their facial features. "I've taken the liberty of collecting your friends," Eloise explains. "Get in. I'll explain on the way to the airport."

"Where are we going?"

"Los Angeles," Eloise explains. "I'm afraid a red-eye flight is in order; there isn't much time to spare. I hope you were not planning on a good night's sleep."

Richard sighs as he opens the door. He can see Sawyer and Claire in the backseat, whispering earnestly. "And what are we going to Los Angeles to see, Eloise?" he asks, careful to use her given name.

"Two things," replies Eloise crisply as she slides into the seat beside him. A capped driver Richard does not recognize sits behind the wheel. "I have a document to show you, one which for security reasons I did not entrust to bring with me. Secondly, I'm charting you a way back to the island. For that, we require coordinates which only the lamppost can provide."

"Our work isn't finished -"

"Trust me," Eloise interrupts him as the car rockets towards the airport, "when you know what is at stake, you will understand why it is imperative for you to go back."

Richard nods, taking this all in. Then he frowns. "How did you find me? Ben gave me a list of names. He didn't suggest them in any particular order. How did you know I would be at the marina?"

Eloise shakes her head, smiling softly. "Jacob told me, Richard," she says in mock exasperation, as though he ought to have known.


End file.
